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- — 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


jNtmcl 


BY 

PAUL CUSHING 

AUTHOR OF “CUT WITH HIS OWN DIAMOND” ETC. 



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THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


H IRovel 


BY 



• ft. » \JJ "" $h ? 


PAUL CUSHING 


AUTHOR OF “CUT WITH HIS OWN DIAMOND” ETC. 





NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 

1892 





























































/ 












CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

Prologue, i 

I. — A Dark Horse, 13 

II. — Below the Belt 21 

III. — Invoking Jupiter, 28 

IV. — Moth-hunting in Winter .36 

V. — Rook’s Nest, .44 

VI. — Powers of Darkness, 53 

VII. — II Penseroso, 62 

VIII. — A Man’s Burden, 68 

IX. — At the Hag Stone . . 77 

X. — A Bit of Information, 85 

XI. — The Great Adventure, 93 

XII. — Dem Muthigen Hilft Gott ! 100 

XIII. — In a Green Bower, in 

XIV. — Wen Gott Betrugt, der ist Wohl Betrogen, . . . 120 

XV.— A Conspiracy, 127 

XVI. — A Naturalist on Spooks, * 136 

XVII. — A Candle-end and a Pair of Eyes, . . . . .145 

XVIII. — A Bud of Mystery, 151 

XIX.— The Bud Opens, 159 

XX. — A Witness Tells His Tale 168 

XXI. — A Gust of the Soul and 182 

XXII. — The Consequences 190 

XXIII. — In Front of the Forge, ....... 201 


GOKLeNTS> 


i\ f 

CHAPTER ^Aofe 

XXIV. — Quetzalcoatl, 207 

XXV. — Job Else & Co., . 215 

XXVI. — Uncle and Nephew 222 

XXVII. — Kneebone on Fighting, 229 

XXVIII. — A Piece of Artistry, 23d 

XXIX. — The Unjust Judge, 245 

XXX. — The Plateau Mine, 255 

XXXI. — On the Stone Terrace, 264 

XXXII. — A Lover and His Lass 271 

XXXIII. — In a Trap 275 

XXXIV. — Father and Son, 284 

. 294 


Epilogue, , 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


PROLOGUE 

It was a hot afternoon in the middle of May. A month ear- 
lier, ridges of snow were visible under the stone walls of the 
uplands of Peakshire. 

It had been a long and bitter winter, and now the spring, in- 
stead of being the avant-courrier of summer, of melodious voice, 
and comely aspect of pink and white, was nothing but a lag- 
gard train-bearer in the ashen retinue of winter. 

Then, all of a sudden, the mocking traitorous spirit that so 
wretchedly impersonated the sweet spirit of piping song and 
shooting bud, and sunshine dashed with shower, was vanquished 
and driven off in disgrace. Summer came for a few days, not 
laden with ripening fruits and crowned with shade-giving foli- 
age, but still charged with the vital heat of life. He came 
just to let the pale-faced, thin-blooded race of mortals know 
that he was still alive, and in due time would come and hold his 
state among them. 

But they who waited for his coming as watchers watch for the 
dawn were not at all prepared for this impromptu visit. They 
received him, not with the self-respecting homage of bared head 
and bended knee, as becomes the free and loyal subjects of a 
constitutional monarch, but prostrate, like Orientals. They lay 
down before him, panting and perspiring, overcome by his brill- 
iant presence. 

This state of affairs was illustrated on the afternoon in ques- 
tion by the attitude of Squire Saxton’s head shepherd. Vigi- 
lant, skilled, and energetic, busy from morning till night, and 
anything but idle even when asleep in bed, Abel Boden now lay 
stretched out on the heather, with the upper part of his body 
in the shadow of an ancient yew-tree. 

He was a man of about thirty years of age, a widower with one 
child, a lacL named after himself, Abel. He lived with Dame 
Cowlishaw, the widow of Dick Cowlishaw, the squire’s late wag- 

i 


2 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


oner, who was killed in the wood while hauling timber, two 
years earlier. 

The dame took mightily to little Abel, and thought wonders 
of him. 

“If he was my own child, he couldn’t have had better intel- 
lects. He’s only going of five, an’ he knows the names of the 
trees, an’ all the flowers in the plot, an’ I’m most inclined 
to think he can tell which hive a bee comes from,’’ she said 
with pride to the vicar one day, stroking the curly head of Mas- 
ter Abel, who was hiding his face in her dress. 

Half an hour before the shepherd threw himself at full length 
on the heather, he had met the dame and his lad in search of 
forget-me-nots, and had carried the child across some fields 
to show him the young lambs. They came back across the 
moor, following the half-beaten wagon-track that led from 
Voe, down in the valley, to Potter’s Carr, away up among the 
hills. Under the yew-tree that grew on the edge of the 
long-disused quarry on the moor, Abel sat and played with 
the boy for some minutes; then the dame trotted off with 
her charge, and Abel lay down, overcome with the heat. 

Below him was the quarry— a deep wound half healed. Many 
a year had gone by since it was worked, as one could see at a 
glance: the smooth perpendicular rock was no longer of blood- 
red crimson as it caught the slanting light of the evening sun, 
but was of a dull brown, overlaid with great splashes of vivid 
green. Where the rock sloped or had been left rough, there 
mosses, grasses, flowers, weeds, bushes, trees — innumerable 
forms of life, wild, sweet, and tenacious — had gathered to- 
gether, grown, multiplied, and transformed an eyesore into a 
paradise of untamed beauty. The hillside all about it was 
thickly wooded, and through the valley at its foot ran one of 
the maddest streams in all that land of mad streams. 

Above the quarry the heather-land ran as far as Potter’s Carr 
to the left, while the sloping land on the right rolled and 
twisted itself into rich pastures and golden corn-fields, with 
many and many a laughing dale that not infrequently put on a 
sudden look of savagery — startling to the stranger, but to the 
native nothing but a bit of its humor, a touch of pretty make- 
believe, like a child playing the bear. 

Voe itself was nestled half in and half out of one such dale. 

Abel lay on his back watching the almost motionless clouds 
that lay against the deep blue sky like great snow-mountains. 
Presently he heard footsteps approaching, and when they drew 
near, he raised himself on his elbow to see who it was: not 
twice a day did any one cross that part of the moor. 


PROLOGUE 


3 


It was with some surprise that he recognized his brother 
Luke, who was returning home from Potter’s Carr, with several 
empty sacks over his shoulder. Luke was his senior by two 
years, and was the right-hand man of Miller Duckmanton, who 
worked his own mill at Voe, and was considered by his neigh- 
bors to be a warm man. 

For some months now there had existed a coldness between 
the two brothers, and they had parted several days ago on the 
edge of a quarrel. The bone of contention was Alice Duck- 
manton, the miller’s only child, whose nineteenth birthday 
had occurred on the ist of May. She was a delicate piece of 
innocent wantonness, who took to coquetry as a duck to water 
— as pretty as she was piquant and as tantalizing as she was 
variable. 

Both the brothers loved her, but with a difference. Abel 
loved her because he could not help it, the silly fellow — being 
conquered by her brown eyes, her flashes of saucy humor inter- 
polated between passages of gentle sympathy and maiden shy- 
ness. Luke loved her with a touch of animal fierceness, re- 
membering always that she was the miller’s only child, and, as 
such, the prospective owner of the mill and a few score acres 
of some of the best land in the parish. 

And she, following the bend of pretty, witty deviltry native to 
her, gave her heart to the fierce man and her open and delusive 
favor to the mild. Her merry brain had an instinct for com- 
edy, but was quite incapable of realizing the tragic abyss that 
fraternal feud and disappointed passion might create. 

“Holloa, Luke! where art going?” cried Abel, in a friendly 
tone. 

“Wum,” answered Luke, surlily. 

“ I’ll come along with you then. It’s mighty hot o’erhead,” 
said Abel, getting on to his feet. 

“ Maybe I’d rather have your absence than your company.” 

“Well, I’ll be hanged if that isna straight! But you never 
was strong on manners, Luke,” said Abel, with a laugh. 

Luke elbowed his brother away from him, saying, with an 
oath, “ My manners is good enough for the likes of you.” 

“All right, Luke; but keep yourself to yourself. I can 
stand your ill looks and words, being as how we’re brothers; 
but ” 

“But what, you soft-tongued rogue? Dost think I’ll be 
balked by you? Let me hear of you speaking to her again, 
and I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life,” roared Luke. 

Abel grew red in the face for a few moments; then the blood 
receded and his countenance blanched as shame at the insult 


4 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


gave place to white-hot anger. The mild man was on his 
mettle now. 

“Look here, Luke,” he said, slowly, “this has gone so far it 
must go farther. I shall see her to-night, and I shall speak to 
her, you may be sure. If you’re going to do any thrashing, 
you’d better do it now — if you can." 

For a while the two men clutched and wrestled like two mad 
bears — with their eyes. Neither yielded. Then Luke dropped 
his bags and sprang at his brother. Abel went down plump. 
Luke had just time to deliver a fine, well-planted kick in the 
quarter thoughtfully provided by nature for that purpose, be- 
fore Abel was up and on him. 

It was not a fair stand-up fight, but a deadly and most irra- 
tional hug. Now, the hugging power of man is not great un- 
less he is in a loving mood. Then he has been known to 
accomplish great things; but in anger he cannot hug as a 
fighting animal should, his ribs being stronger than his 
arms. 

After they had squeezed each other ineffectually for some 
time, Abel broke loose and cried: “This isna the way to fight. 
Let’s have it out with our fists like men.” 

For an answer, Luke flung himself on his brother, and the 
two went at the bear game again. 

Presently Abel gasped: “For God’s sake, drop it, Luke! 
We shall be down the quarry in a minute.” 

“The sooner the better,” hissed Luke, with a terrible oath. 

There was murder in his tone, and Abel knew it. It was 
nothing less now than a fight for life. They were close to the 
edge of the precipice, fifty feet from the bottom at the least. 
Abel shuddered, and tried hard to force his brother away; but 
Luke meant business, and held his ground tenaciously, while 
his eyes shone bright and fierce as a tiger’s. 

“Do you mean murder, Luke?” 

“No, lad. We don’t murder toads or snakes; we kill them,” 
growled Luke, giving a sudden mighty heft that was intended 
to do the work. 

The strain was too much for him; he slipped and fell on one 
knee, and lost half his hold. Quick as lightning, Abel put 
forth all his strength and threw his brother from him. Luke 
turned a complete somersault over the cliff, and went down with 
a fearful cry. 

For a little while Abel stood like one in a trance, looking at 
his finger-nails; then he drew near to the edge and looked down. 
The steep declivity was studded with young trees and bushes, 
and their fresh green leaves prevented him from seeing far 


PROLOGUE 


5 

down. He listened, but could hear no sound save that of the 
rushing stream below. 

“Well, if I hadna done him he would have done me — that’s 
all there is about it. I reckon I’d better go and give meself 
up to the police.” 

So saying, Abel Boden turned away and made toward the 
village of Voe. After proceeding some distance he stood still. 

“Nay, I’ll go back. Maybe he’s not dead, and I can help 
him if he’s badly hurt. May God forgive me the awful deed! ” 
he said aloud. 

He turned and ran back as hard as he could. 

Arrived at the fatal spot, he stood and called several times: 
“Luke! Luke! where art? Where art, Luke?” 

There was no answer. A great terror came over Abel, the 
terror of remorse and despair. 

“Cast thyself down and die with him,” a voice seemed to 
say: so clear and distinct was it that Abel involuntarily looked 
round to see the speaker. 

There was no one to be seen. Still the voice spoke, and 
gave the same deadly counsel. Abel trembled. 

“It’s the Evil One himself. O God, have mercy on me!” 
he cried, falling back from the edge of the precipice and sink- 
ing on to his knees. 

The voice, soft and dreamy and melodious, still sounded in 
his ears, and Abel thought that death itself would be as sweet 
as the voice that urged it. Would it? Would self-murder 
sweeten the bitter issue ? “ Cast thyself down and die with 

him.” Like distant music lulling one to sleep sounded the 
fatal voice, and every syllable seemed as a strong cord pulling 
him toward the brink. He threw himself upon the ground, 
and clutched the heather wildly with both hands, for he had a 
sensation of being slowly drawn toward destruction. He lay 
there for some time, thus physically resisting the devil, and 
clinging to sanity by his finger-nails. 

When the voice had been silent for many minutes, said Abel: 
“ I will go and seek him now. God grant he is yet alive! ” 

He rose up and disappeared in the wood to the right of the 
quarry. . . . 

Luke was not dead, nor, for the matter of that, much hurt. 
Had he been a saint, of course he would have been smashed to 
death. Had he been an ordinarily good fellow, of fair temper 
and moderate virtue, there is little doubt that he would have 
broken a few of his most serviceable bones. Being, however, 
a fierce, surly, graceless dog, whose freshest virtue was a bit 
rancid, whose death would have entailed no drain upon the 


6 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


world’s stock of sweet h-umanity, he must needs have guardian 
imps to bear him up lest he strike his pretty head against a rock. 

Falling, he fell across the boughs of a young ash-tree; these 
with swift intelligence lowered their precious charge into the 
capacious arms of a spreading yew; while these again let him 
fall, a little unceremoniously, on to the churlish tops of a clump 
of thorn-bushes. From thence he reached the solid earth with 
a bump of an inferior kind, and rolling ten or a dozen feet, 
finally brought up with his body against a huge stone, that 
had been busy for half a century covering and padding itself 
with softest moss for the great occasion. 

Only, his face was in a bunch of nettles and his hands were 
lovingly clinging to some straggling thorn-brambles. Bram- 
bles and nettles, mistaking the would-be murderer for a good 
man in adversity, gave forth freely of their peculiar virtue, and 
riddled him with a quiverful of dart-like pains. 

Gathering his scattered wits together, Luke Boden got on to 
his feet and felt himself all over in a comical fashion. One 
would have thought he was making sure that he had brought 
all his members with him on his journey. His hands were 
bleeding, his face was burning, and his left foot was throbbing 
with fiery pain. 

For "his extraordinary deliverance he gave thanks in this 
wise: raising his eyes and fist apparently to heaven, he ex- 
claimed, “Damn him! I’ll be even with him yet!” 

Whether he was thinking of his brother up there on the brow 
of the cliff, or of the imperfect protection Old Harry had ren- 
dered him, was not quite clear at the moment. Subsequent 
events, however, suggest that he was thinking of his brother, 
and not of his father. 

Luke Boden was on a shelf of rock, some distance from the 
bottom, that ran along the face of the slope and was used by 
venturesome lads as a short cut between the woods on either 
side of the quarry. He moved cautiously along this path, 
which was perilously narrow at points, in the direction of the 
wood on the right: he knew that a little way in the wood was 
an easy path running from the moor above to the bridle-path 
in the valley below. The pain in his foot was intense, and he 
sat down to rest. 

In a little while he heard his brother calling: “ Luke! where 
art ? Where art, Luke ? ” 

He did not answer, looked savage, and swore hard. Pres- 
ently an idea struck him. 

“He’ll be coming along here to look for me,” he muttered, 
standing up and looking about him. 


PROLOGUE 


r 

A little ahead, the path was not more than twenty inches 
wide; ten or a dozen feet above the path was a flat rock, form- 
ing a sort of table on which were bushes growing. With consid- 
erable difficulty, Luke climbed on to this rock and crouched 
behind the bushes. A tiger in ambush would not have been a 
deadlier enemy. 

Peering through the bushes, Luke saw Abel leave the wood 
and come along the path ; he lost sight of him for a few mo- 
ments, as the path wound round the rocks. When Abel came 
into view again he was close at hand. 

Softly on his hands and knees crawled Luke to the edge of 
the rock : immediately below him was the narrow shelf of rock 
which Abel had to cross. Luke lay on his chest and peered 
over. He drew back, and lifting a large, heavy stone, held it 
in both hands over the rock for a moment or two, and then he 
let it fall. It was beautifully timed. Abel Coden went down 
with a groan, rolling over and over like a ball, till his poor 
battered body lay motionless at the foot of the quarry. 

With marvellous celerity, considering his condition, did 
Luke make his way down to his murdered brother. He picked 
him up on to his back as he would a sack of flour, and carried 
him out of the quarry and along the bridle-path; leaving this, 
he crossed the rushing stream by some stepping-stones, and 
ascended the wooded slope on the other side. Panting and 
sweating, he came to an old lead mine, where was a shaft 
full of water, rudely boarded over and partly covered with 
stones. 

A few minutes of hard work and Abel Boden’s tomb was 
ready for him : the body fell with a thud, and the water splashed 
up. A drop of it lighted on Luke’s parted lips. Replacing 
the boards and the stones, Luke retraced his steps, recrossed 
the path along the face of the quarry, and, limping and sore 
bruised, came at last to the mill at Yoe. 

He entered the bigold kitchen, sat down in the miller’s arm- 
chair that stood in the chimney corner, and fell into a deep 
swoon. When he revived, he found himself lying on his own 
bed — he lodged with the miller— and the doctor bending over 
him. Now, Luke was mortally afraid of doctors, and, when 
well, contemptuous of their craft. 

So now he sprang up in bed, crying: “Am I a-dying, doctor? 
Am I a-dying? ” 

The doctor laughed lightly, and gently pushing him back on 
to his pillow, said: “Oh, no, not yet awhile. You are shaken 
up a bit, and bruised here and there, and you have got a nasty 
foot, badly sprained ; had to cut away your boot to get it off. 


8 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


But you are a long way from being a dead man, or even a badly 
hurt man. Did you fall ? ” 

“Yes; down the moor quarry. ” 

“ Indeed ! how did that happen ? ” 

“He pushed me over; wanted to kill me, I reckon." 

At this, medicus pricked his ears. 

“You were drunk, I suppose?” 

“Not exactly: drink isna in my line.” 

“We’ve had a deal of rain lately; I suppose the land slipped 
and let you down ? ” 

“ Maybe it did; I reckon I can get up and ride over to Squire 
Saxton’s, can’t I ? ” 

“ To-morrow perhaps, but not to-day. What do you want 
with the squire ? ” 

“ Why, I want a warrant out for his arrest, to be sure. A 
fellow doesn’t try to murder me for nothing, not if I know it!” 

“ Well, well, well ; and it is really true, then ? Who was it ? ” 

“I’d rather not say just yet. I want the squire,” answered 
Luke, doggedly. 

“Very well; I will ride over and see him,” said the doctor; 
and in a few minutes Luke heard the ring of his horse’s hoofs 
on the cobble-paved yard below. 

It was late in the evening when the squire arrived in his dog- 
cart, accompanied by a member of the county constabulary 
who lived in the next village. 

“Why, Luke, my good fellow, what is this I hear? At- 
tempted murder! Are you badly hurt?” said the squire, stand- 
ing beside the bed. 

He was a young man, much about the same age as Luke, 
with nothing in his build or bearing of the fine old squire — of 
fiction. Had he been a trifle smarter dressed, he would have 
passed for a weigher of sugars or a measurer of calicoes. Yet 
for two hundred years his forbears had been the squires of Voe, 
and had driven a roan mare, by which tenure they held their 
wide estate. His voice would have been sympathetic but for a 
slight stammer, which rendered it useless as a vehicle of senti- 
ment. 

“Yes, sir, I’m badly shook up; it’s a wonder as how I wasn’t 
killed, sir. It’s all Abel’s doing, sir! ” 

“Oh, come now! I cannot think that. Why, your brother 
Abel is one of the kindest and gentlest of men, as a good shep- 
herd should be.” 

“ Maybe he is, sir, with lambs and babies and such-like things. 
But he tried to kill me, and I want to have him arrested,” said 
Luke, with a touch of fierceness in his tone. 


PROLOGUE 


9 


“ I’m very sorry to hear it, Luke. It’s a serious thing, you 
know, to arrest a man on a charge like that. He is your 
brother, you know. Wasn’t it an accident?” inquired the 
squire, who had a great liking for his head shepherd. 

As a lad, Abel had won his admiration by his strange skill 
in landing trout and grayling with home-made rod and tackle, 
and his curious knowledge of birds and every kind of wood-lore. 

“No, it was no accident; it was meant for downright murder. 
Some rough words passed atwixt us, then he fell on me and 
pushed me o’er the top of the moor quarry. He said he’d fin- 
ish me,” growled Luke. 

“Well, I am sure Abel is sorry enough now for what he did.” 

“I reckon he is,” quoth Luke, grimly. 

“Then you will overlook it this time, won’t you?” 

Luke was silent. 

“ If I bring him to you, and he says he is sorry, you will, eh ? ” 

“ He won’t come. He knows he meant murder.” 

“Won’t he, though! It is getting late, but I will drive up 
to Dame Cowlishaw’s and bring him back with me. This quar- 
relling between brothers will never do,” said the squire, as he 
turned and left the room. 

He did not see the odd smile that crossed Luke’s face as he 
passed through the doorway. 

Squire Saxton, despite his commonplace exterior and im- 
pedimented speech, was a man who did much to justify his 
order in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation. 
Everybody admitted he was a just man; and a considerable 
minority — every man of them a tenant of his — were bold enough 
to advance the proposition that he was also a generous man. 
The influence of the Hall was felt in every cottage within a 
radius of miles, and everywhere it was recognized as an agent 
of good-will, brotherly kindness, and the essential refinement 
of courteous manners and gentle speech. 

Squire Saxton was not one of the modern breed who care not 
a brass farthing whether their people be courteous or boorish, 
clean or dirty, ignorant or instructed, so long as they drop 
courtesy and pull forelock to themselves and vote straight at 
election times. But then he was suckled and nurtured in the 
old traditions of squiralty. So now, characteristically and 
naturally, he busied himself with trying to heal the angry 
breach between the shepherd and the miller. 

In the course of an hour the squire returned without Abel. 

His face wore an anxious look. 

“ I told you he wouldn’t come, sir,” said Luke. 

“ I am sorry to say he has not come home. I don’t under- 


IO 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


stand it; I think he must be attending to the sheep/’ answered 
the squire, unwilling to believe that Abel had fled the country. 

“Nay, sir, he’s none tending sheep. I want to have him 
taken up, sir.” 

“ Perhaps it will be the best way of getting him back again, 
if he is foolish enough to have gone away. Let me have your 
story in full.” 

Thereupon Luke furnished an account of what had happened. 
It was colored, not over-brilliantly, but artistically. It might 
have been a picture of the first Abel, done by Cain the Crafty, 
son of Adam, after a certain encounter in the fields. It put 
Abel in an ugly light, and troubled the squire greatly. If Abel 
was really guilty, it was better for him to get away out of the 
country, thought the squire; he gave him his best wishes in 
the endeavor, and if he had known his whereabouts he would 
have sent him his purse as a token. All this was in his capac- 
ity of squire. As a justice of the peace, it was his duty to up- 
hold the law and punish offenders; and he did bis official duty. 

Luke’s statement was reduced to writing and read to him; 
the oath was administered, and then the squire made out a war- 
rant for Abel’s arrest. It was close on midnight when the 
squire left the mill. 

Next morning, peaceful wood-embowered Voe was awake 
early and terribly excited. Had it been the other way about, 
and Luke had tried to do the killing, not a dozen people in the 
place would have been surprised. But that the mild, gentle- 
natured, humor-loving Abel Boden should have tried to slay his 
brother, and have fled' to avoid arrest, was something to fetch 
folk out of their beds at daybreak, and make them swarm heads 
like “flies in vintage-time.” The witcraft of Voe would not 
have been more exercised had a volcano opened on the top of 
the Shimmering cliff behind the mill. 

Popular sympathy was with Abel, and certain of the Voese 
went so far as to throw doubt upon Luke’s statement. The 
doubters were mostly young men of not more than fifty-five 
years to sixty, who knew no better. But the Witan of three- 
score years and ten and upward shook their sagacious nod- 
dles; quoted the squire, the doctor, and the policeman; in- 
quired triumphantly if the warrant was not out; and meekly 
suggested that well-behaved boys did not offer opinions to their 
seniors before they were asked, nor talk of what they knew 
nothing about. 

The day passed and the night fell, but nothing was heard of 
Abel Boden. On the morrow it was bravely announced by 
Dame Rumor that three constables, two of the squire’s game- 


PROLOGUE 


II 


keepers, and a detachment of villagers were to search the quarry 
and the surrounding woods. 

The news travelled in that semi-miraculous manner peculiai 
to out-of-the-way places, with a nimbleness almost uncanny. 
People seemed to spring out of the earth, and come forth from 
the dark places among the rocks, and swarm around the mill 
to witness the departure of the band of searchers. Such a 
crowd had not been seen in Voe for many a day. 

The searchers, some twenty in number, were standing near 
the kitchen door; the crowd held the yard, the steps, the gates, 
and half a dozen wagons and carts; inside, the squire was 
having a talk with Luke, when a man left the crowd of on-look- 
ers, and pushing past the group of searchers, entered the 
kitchen and asked to see the squire. He was a tall, muscular 
man, of about sixty, with iron-gray hair, and dressed in dark 
purple corduroy. Everybody knew Nathan Wass, the broom- 
maker, who lived all alone in a dark, weird-looking little cot- 
tage, built of tufa-stone, on the edge of the wood under the 
moor. 

In a few minutes it was known that he was closeted with the 
squire, and the excitement grew intense; for Nathan Wass was 
a quiet, unobtrusive man, reserved as an oyster, who never 
meddled with business not his own. At the same time he had 
the reputation of enjoying something of the luck of the famous 
Jack Horner; and into what pie he put his thumb, from the 
same he was pretty certain to extract the plum. It was char- 
acteristic of Nathan Wass that, if he appeared at all, he always 
appeared at the right time, and either said or did something 
that every one would but no one could. 

The crowd waited, wondering what nail Nathan was hitting 
on the head. By and by he came out, and moved away with 
the band of searchers, headed for some distance by the squire 
himself. The crowd hung back, not daring to follow. 

Then everybody learned in no time that Nathan Wass had 
been a witness of the encounter between the two brothers; he 
had seen Luke slip and Abel throw him over the brink. Then 
Nathan had turned and fled the scene in horror. The crowd 
murmured, not at Abel, but at Nathan. Why should he forge 
a prison bolt against Abel the Gentle? Why did not he hold 
his peace, if that was all he could say? He and Abel had been 
very friendly together, would take long jaunts in company, 
and play draughts during the long winter evenings. Confound 
it! it was not like Nathan Wass to go and do a shabby thing 
like that. 

The searchers were not successful, and no trace of Abel 


12 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


could be found. In the course of a week, information was sent 
to every police station in Great Britain, and the ports were 
closely watched; several men were arrested, only to be dis- 
charged on examination. One man was remarkably like Abel; 
but he was not Abel, only Harry. Weeks, months, years went 
by without yielding any word, or sign, or token of the missing 
man. 

The dead cannot remember, and the living are often as the 
dead. Abel Boden was forgotten of the living. 


CHAPTER I 


A DARK HORSE 

“ Gentlemen, it is time to begin business. Gentlemen, I 
solicit your attention, and would ask for silence.” 

Rat, tat, tat went the auctioneer’s hammer on the back of 
the stout arm-chair upon which he was standing. 

The hum of voices ceased, and the auctioneer continued: “I 
am here to-day, gentlemen, to sell a very valuable piece of 
property. It will be sold in one lot.” 

Murmurs from different parts of the room. 

“Such are my instructions, gentlemen. The land must go 
with the house and the shop. There is no reserve price. It 
will become the property of the highest bidder. The house 
and smithy alone are worth four hundred pounds of any man’s 
money.” 

Ironical laughter from the crowd. 

“Gentlemen laugh! I don’t wonder. I meant five hundred 
pounds, not four.” 

Louder ironical laughter. 

“Oh, I dare say you think, gentlemen, that two hundred 
would have been nearer the mark ? ” 

“Hear! hear!” in a chorus. 

“Yes, to be sure; exactly so. But I’m not so green, gentle- 
men, as I evidently look. My instructions are to sell, not to 
give away. John Marsden is an auctioneer, not a relieving 
officer. But the matter is in your own hands, gentlemen; the 
place isn’t worth a farthing more than you will give for it. 
But this I will say: gentlemen, for a widower, or a bachelor, 
or a man with economical ideas regarding the size of his fam- 
ily, there isn’t a prettier, snugger, neater cottage within a 
dozen miles of Voe. And then the business that goes with it! 
Didn’t our poor dead friend, known to most of us here from our 
cradle up as honest Jack Wragg, drive as fine a smithy as 
you’ll find in Peakshire? He made money enough at it. And, 
gentlemen, remember that honest Jack Wragg left behind him 
a poor, sorrowing widow, with no child to work for her and 
comfort her in her old age. All her fortune is in this small 


14 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


estate; and with the image of poor Jack Wragg’s sorrowing 
widow before your eyes, who will be stony-hearted enough to 
say that the place is not dirt cheap at five hundred pounds?” 

A dead silence followed this appeal, and the auctioneer 
smjled a benediction on the group of upturned faces. 

“Gentlemen, I knew it would be so,” he said solemnly. 

He paused a moment or two, then he continued in secular 
style: “In addition to house, smithy, and the adjoining garden, 
there are two acres one rood and seventeen poles of land. It 
consists of two small meadows beside the river Scarthin, and 
separates the squire’s land from Miller Boden’s, who, I am 
glad to see, is present. Gentlemen, you know the land as well 
as I do: better grass-land is not to be found in the whole val- 
ley of the Scarthin; it is worth a hundred pounds an acre. 
Gentlemen, what offer do you make for the house, smithy, gar- 
den, and meadow-land? Any offer, gentlemen! Start it at 
anything you please.” 

“ Fifty pounds,” sang out a gentleman in a smock-frock, who 
was well known to everybody, and was not worth fifty shillings 
in the world. 

Loud guffaws greeted this outburst of spirit. 

“ Fifty pounds; thank you, sir. Fifty pounds only is offered 
for — sixty, eighty, a hundred, a hundred and — fifty; thank you, 
Mr. Boden. Is there any advance on a hundred and — sixty, 
seventy, eighty, two hundred; thank you, Mr. Sims. If the 
squire gets it for the money, he — two hundred and ten, twenty, 
thirty, forty, fifty — fifty. Two hundred and fifty pounds only 
is offered for the — sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety; thank you, 
Mr. Sims. Two hun — three hundred it is, and thank you, Mr. 
Boden. Going for three hundred pounds; is there any advance 
on three hundred pounds? Gentlemen, I must tell you a story 
— a true story,” said the auctioneer, thrusting his hands in his 
trousers pockets, and putting on the well-known comical ex- 
pression that always heralded one of his famous stock of true 
stories. 

The common room at the Nag’s Head Inn, where the sale 
was taking place, was crowded with dwellers in and about Voe. 
The event had been looked forward to with unusual interest for 
some weeks, during which time it had formed the staple of con- 
versation in the village, and had been discussed from every 
point of view accessible to local knowledge. 

Indeed, the discussion had generated no little heat, and had 
led to the making of a good number of small bets. The small- 
ness of the bets, moreover, in no way diminished the interest in 
the result. The area of speculation was very limited, the only 


A DARK HORSE 


*5 

question being whether Squire Saxton or Miller Boden would 
be the purchaser. It was conceded on all hands that the con- 
test would lie between these two; the very idea of any foreign 
competition was excluded. 

That there should be a sale at all was a matter to be re- 
gretted; for the Wraggs had been the smiths of Voe time out 
of mind. Honest Jack liked a glass of beer as well as any 
man in the dale, and now and then, at long intervals, would 
get a little market pert. At such times Jack Wragg grew 
mighty proud of his forbears, and cracked of his ancestry as 
bravely as a lord. 

“ My fathers have stood on this hearthstone for over three 
hundred years. Squire Saxton is a gentleman and I bain’t; 
but I’m better than a hundred years older than he is,” he had 
been known to say, more than once, in his lively moments. 

But the line had at last run out, and the smith of Voe would 
no longer bear the almost official and historic name of Wragg. 
This was evil enough, forsooth, in the eyes of the natives, and 
was inevitable. But if the Wragg place was to be sold, of 
course the miller or the squire would buy it. And it was 
equally a matter of course that the squire’s purse was a foot 
to the miller’s inch in depth; but it was not equally certain 
which of the two was prepared to dip the deeper into his 
purse. 

Naturally the squire would like to get hold of that two acres 
one rood and seventeen poles of land along the riverside; 
everybody knew that it was a kind of Naboth’s vineyard, for 
which a long line of squires had lusted. But it was the king- 
dom, power, and glory of the Wraggs, and they had clung to 
it with a pride in which there was something royal. 

As for the miller, the natives were all sure that he wanted 
the land, and would run a tight race with the squire to get it; 
but there was less unanimity of opinion as to the real reason 
why he wanted it. Among the reasons admitted to be prob- 
able, and discussed as such, were the following: 

No. I. The miller owned just ninety-seven acres two roods 
and twenty-three poles of land already; and if you added to 
this, two acres one rood and seventeen poles more, the result 
would be exactly one hundred acres. Any one could under- 
stand that the miller would like to get the round number of 
acres, especially as the Wragg land lay next to his own, and 
was second to none in the parish. The authority for the exact 
number of acres, roods, and poles owned by the miller was not 
shown or inquired for: in Voe, folk are not of the breed of 
breath-wasters, who are all for argument and proof, and will 


i6 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


not believe a brick wall is made of bricks till they have run 
their heads against it. 

No. II. The miller did not get on very well with the squire, 
and wanted the land to spite him. 

No. III. The miller got on very well with the squire; but 
there was no doubt he was at heart a Radical, though he pro- 
fessed — no, he did not profess — he was always, like a wise man, 
dumb on politics 

No. IV. The miller was a stanch Conservative, and wanted 
to strengthen his influence in that direction. Soil is weighty 
in good honest Tory scales, and many a mickle makes amuckle. 

No. V. The miller had a sour, gloomy devil in him, and 
though he did not care a brass farthing for the land really, it 
was his satanic whim to oppose whoever did. 

No. VI. The miller hated young Abel Boden, Jack Wragg’s 
assistant. It was twenty years ago that the quarrel took place; 
and his brother Abel had gone off to foreign parts to avoid 
arrest, and was probably dead now. The miller could not bear 
the sight of his brother’s lad, and had been heard to say he 
wished him a hundred miles off. It was not the land he wanted, 
but the smithy. If he once had that, his nephew Abel would 
never shoe another horse in Voe. 

The general hope was that the squire would get the place; 
but when it came to the betting, the odds were in favor of the 
miller. He was known as one who was bad to beat, tenacious 
in purpose, obstinate in will, dogged in determination. Still, 
everything depended upon the squire’s instructions to his agent, 
Mr. Sims; and the prospect of a close contest had produced a 
state of feeling in Voe that bordered upon excitement. 

The auctioneer told his story; it was a good one, altogether 
too good to be true, but it was too long to be reproduced here. 
A burst of long and loud laughter, such as many an actor would 
give a month’s salary to provoke, attested its success; then 
to business again. 

The bidding was fairly brisk, though it advanced chiefly in 
spurts that rose and fell as if obedient to a mechanical law. 
For some time, several outsiders contributed to keep the ball 
rolling, much to the disgust of the natives, who were eager for 
the great home contest to begin. 

One by one the foreigners were silenced and driven off the 
field; the competition grew narrower and narrower, until at last 
it lay between Miller Boden for himself and Mr. Sims for the 
squire. The battle had begun. The auctioneer forgot to 
joke, the on-lookers to cough; not a whisper was heard, not a 
foot was shuffled. All lips were parted and many mouths were 


A DARK HORSE 


*7 


open ; had the necessary muscles been at hand, every ear would 
have been pricked. 

The figures had mounted up high. Five hundred pounds was 
the last bid, and Miller Boden had made it. The market value 
of the lot was already exceeded by a clear fifty pounds, and 
whoever got it now would pay a fancy price for it. The miller 
stood with one foot on a chair, in front of the auctioneer, with 
a stern, sullen look on his face. To his left, near the window, 
was Mr. Sims, smiling a little nervously just now, for he felt 
that all eyes were upon him. 

“Any advance on five hundred pounds? Going at — five hun- 
dred and ten pounds." 

A low murmur of applause. 

“Five hundred and ten pounds. Mr. Boden, you will not 
lose it for ten pounds? Shall I say twenty, twenty? Twenty 
it is, and thank you. Five hundred and twenty pounds; going 
at ” 

“ Thirty." 

Another murmur of applause, at which the miller frowned 
heavily. 

“Thank you, Mr. Sims. Five hundred and thirty pounds; 
any advance on — come, Mr. Boden, it would be a pity to lose 
it for a paltry ten pounds. Shall I make it forty ? just another 
ten? Going— forty, and I thank you. Five hundred and forty 
pounds only" (a laugh) “is offered; going at five hundred and 
— you have not done yet, Mr. Sims, I am sure; another ten? 
You will be sorry when it is over — is it fifty ? Going, go- 
ing " 

“ Fifty," said Mr. Sims, and his mouth closed with a snap. 

A deep murmur of approval filled the room, and threatened 
to break out in a ringing cheer. 

“Gentlemen, I am offered five hundred and fifty pounds. 
Going at five hundred and fifty pounds; once 

“ Sixty," growled the miller, and again that deep murmur 
filled the room; for his pluck was admirable. 

He looked surprised and pleased, and sank his hands deep 
into his pockets. But the squire’s representative thrust his 
thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat and shook his head 
significantly. He had done. The squire was beaten and the 
fight was over, thought the crowd, and something like a great 
pent-up sigh of disappointment broke forth; those near the door 
began to move out to spread the news. 

“ Five hundred and sixty pounds is offered. Going, going, 
go " 

“ Seventy!" cried a voice a little in the rear of the auction- 


2 


i8 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


eer; and if a bomb had suddenly exploded in their midst, it 
would hardly have caused a greater sensation. 

The hammer fell from the auctioneer’s hand and rattled on 
to the floor, where it lay unnoticed; while the auctioneer him- 
self turned round in his chair to get a look at the new bidder. 
The miller stood up and glared at him furiously. Those that 
had moved out came trooping back, and stood on tiptoe by the 
door, trying hard to get a glimpse of the stranger. 

On every face was depicted wonder, and every man asked his 
neighbor the same question, “Who is he?” and each gave the 
same answer, “Blest if I know.” 

He was a man who looked a hale sixty, of medium height, 
dressed in a cutaway suit of dark blue serge, with a billycock 
hat thrown back well off his forehead, thus affording a good 
view of his face. His close-cropped hair was pretty well 
frosted, but his short thick beard and mustache were almost 
the color of a chestnut. His eyes were gray and of kindly as- 
pect; his nose was doubtless originally a good specimen of the 
Roman type, but by some catastrophe it had apparently been 
broken and turned askew; under his left eye was a deep scar, 
extending across the greater part of his cheek. He was mag- 
nificently bronzed, and mellowed as is no human fruit under 
the sky of Old England. 

Another foreign trick — he held a wooden toothpick between 
his teeth, and amused himself by gnawing the end. 

What with oblique nose and scarred cheek, there was a cer- 
tain grimness in his appearance; but his eyes, genial and 
humorous, gave away his savagery entirely, and blabbed of the 
sweet milk of human kindness. 

Character always peeps out through the eyes. Every other 
organ of the body will, upon occasions, lie. The facial mus- 
cles will make lying their regular occupation, and carve upon 
the face most eloquent fictions. But the eye mirrors only re- 
ality; therein, if anywhere, is visible the true nature unmasked 
and naked. Therein one may catch a glimpse of that coy mys- 
tery, the soul. The stranger’s eyes were his salvation. 

At this moment, perhaps the most remarkable thing about 
him was his exquisite self-possession. He knew the sensation 
he had made; he knew that all eyes were upon him; he could 
not fail to hear the buzz of inquiry and astonishment that filled 
the room. But it seemed only to amuse him. He was, in- 
deed, conscious of a momentary tingle; but the tingle was 
pleasant. 

Right hand in trousers pocket, left playing with his beard, 
toothpick between his teeth, a good-natured smile flitting over 


A DARK HORSE 


19 


his face, he stood easily, and met in turn one-half the eyes that 
made of him a cynosure. 

One of the very best forms of introduction is a good, honest 
look in the eye. Among simple, primitive people, it precedes 
and almost supersedes speech. And those of the company who 
met the glance of the stranger felt very much as though they 
had shaken him by the hand. Also, these were they that 
formed, on the spur of the moment, a new party, and gave the 
stranger their sympathy, and straightway backed him in the 
coming contest with the miller. On the other hand, the miller 
had his backers; good, honest folk enough they were, whose 
motto was, Voe for the Voese, and who entertained a proper 
contempt of foreigners. 

Presently the auctioneer got down, and securing his hammer, 
remounted his chair and continued: “Gentlemen, while there 
is life there is hope. Faint heart never won fair lady. Only 
the brave deserve the fair. Nil desperandum. Hang on like a 
bull-dog, etc., etc. Gentlemen, time is going, and our friends 
here are both eager to get at each other’s throat — I speak in a 
parable. Five hundred and seventy pounds is offered — gentle- 
men, if you have set your hearts upon it, it will be cheap at a 

thousand. Any advance on ” 

“Eighty,” growled the miller stubbornly. 

But the stranger evidently meant business, and without any 
loss of time called out, “ Ninety! ” 

This seemed to sting the miller; he began to wake up and 
look sharp; and for some time, amid breathless silence, with 
no interruption save the verbal repetition of the bid on the part 
of the auctioneer, the fight went on so: 

Miller. “ Six hundred. ” • 

Auctioneer. “ Six hundred.” 

Stranger. “And ten.” 

Miller. “ Twenty. ” 

Stranger. “Thirty.” 

Miller. “Forty.” 

Stranger. “ Fi f ty . ” 

Miller. “Sixty.” 

Stranger. “ Seventy. ” 

Miller. “Eighty.” 

Stranger. “ Ni nety . 

Miller (with a fierce grunt). “Seven hundred.” 

For a moment or two, the auctioneer raised himself from his 
bent-forward position, in which he acknowledged the bids, and 
eased his back. The crowd did very much the same thing ; throats 
were cleared, noses blown, feet shuffled; then silence fell again. 


20 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“Gentlemen, another start, and success to the bravest! 
Seven hundred pounds is offered. Any advance?” 

Stranger. “And ten.” 

Miller . “Twenty.” 

Stranger. “Thirty.” 

Miller. “Forty.” 

Stranger. “ Fifty. ” 

A long, a fearfully long pause seemed to follow. Perfect 
silence reigned; but if glances had been audible, there had 
been a tumult. The miller, with his foot on the chair, with 
bended head and downward eyes, did not look beaten ; and yet 
his ominous silence! 

“ Any advance on seven hundred and fifty pounds ? Once — 
twice ” 

“Five,” said the miller, with an upward jerk of his head. 

A thrill went through the crowd. The miller had come down 
to a fiver. He was bending. He was breaking. There was a 
general catching of the breath in surprise; it sounded like the 
gasp of a Thor. 

“ Seven hundred and fifty-five. Any ” 

“Sixty-five,” cried the stranger, working the toothpick with 
his teeth from side to side of his mouth, in a manner that said, 
as plainly as if spoken in Voe dialect: “Marry come up! none 
of your fivers for me. We’ll fight it out in fifties if you like! ” 

There was another pause before the miller answered the chal- 
lenge. 

“Eighty,” he growled, and a many-folded “Ah!” was 
breathed by the crowd. 

All eyes turned to the stranger. Slowly he drew from his 
waistcoat pocket another toothpick, and put it between his 
teeth; it was a clean, pointed, wiry, unchewed toothpick, and 
seemed good for another five hundred pounds. 

It made several quick passages from one corner of the mouth 
to the other; then it halted for an instant on the larboard 
quarter, while its owner called out, “ Eight hundred! ” 

Plump down on his chair went the miller — beaten. 

“At eight hundred pounds, going, going — GONE! What 
name, sir?” 

“Christopher Kneebone,” answered the stranger, pulling out 
of his hip pocket a large roll of bank-notes. 


CHAPTER II 


BELOW THE BELT 

Outside the Nag’s Head it was a white February afternoon, 
cold and cheerless. The sky looked surly, and the air was full 
of snowflakes, not dry and crisp, but wet and heavy like half- 
drowned butterflies. I suppose every flake remained true to its 
scientific character, and assumed the shape of a six-rayed star 
— every ray the axis of a little world of exquisite beauty. But 
to ordinary eyes whose lids were roofs and whose lashes were 
spouts running with melted snow, there was nothing visible of 
this cunning architecture. The beautiful stellar shapes were 
nothing but vicious white dabs of water, of great sticking 
power, which suddenly melted into rivers, lakes, and water- 
falls, seas, bays, and gulfs, and other interesting bodies of 
water, all over one’s personal landscape. So the crowd, not 
caring to face the weather in a hurry, now that the sale was 
over, dispersed itself quickly into the various rooms of the 
inn, and for some hours discussed the situation, and rehearsed 
in detail the moving drama of the auction. East and west 
along the valley, north and south over the hills and the moors, 
the tale travelled swiftly and in perfect form. A little golden- 
breasted romance on wings, it flew hither and thither, and sang 
its song, and passed like a quick gleam of color, until the 
whole country-side was talking of the battle at the Nag’s Head. 

It was the evening of the day of the sale. In a little cosey 
sitting-room in a quiet part of the inn, in front of a merrily 
burning fire, sat Christopher Kneebone. The tea things had 
not been long removed, the white cloth had given place to a 
red one, and in the centre of the table stood a glass lamp of 
yellow tinge. The chair occupied by the man was an arm- 
chair covered with horsehair, and very low; the springs were 
feeble, and there was a deep sag in the seat, which, however, 
added to the comfort of sitting in it. When new, the seat had 
resembled a tolerably stiff ball, on which it would have been 
an acrobatic feat to sit without the aid of the supporting arms. 
The man’s legs were crossed, which brought his top knee on a 
line with his chin. He was smoking a long-stemmed pipe of 


22 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


cherry-wood, and reading at intervals the morning Standard. 
Like a potent and jealous spirit, the paper appealed to him 
with its own peculiar charm, and would not let him rest. Yet 
the magician was unable to hold his attention for more than a 
few minutes at a stretch; then the paper would fall upon his 
knee, and he would puff slowly, with his eyes upon the ruddy 
fire. Now and then from afar came the sound of a loud voice 
or a ringing laugh, mellowed by distance and muffled by the 
heavy red curtains that hung before the door. It was snowing 
still outside; and looking at the window, which overlooked an 
orchard, one could see the snow driving against the panes, and 
already piled high up on the sill. The man, catching sight of 
the heaped-up snow against the window, got up, and putting his 
face close to the panes, while he cut off the light with his 
hands, peered out into the night. White orchard; white 
boughs and black trunks; black wall with white coping; a 
well windlass and bucket quite white, and three feet of hang- 
ingchain quite black; beyond the orchard the Scarthin, a broad 
black band; a white slope, and then the high hills, steep, cov- 
ered with firs with white arms and black poles. A wild, sad, 
dismal, eerie world to look upon. The man shivered with im- 
agination, and came back, and sat enjoying the company of the 
man-loving and man-beloved spirit of the flame. Presently the 
landlord came into the room and said: 

“ Mr. Boden, the miller, sir, is outside, and would like to see 
you for a few minutes, if it’s agreeable to you.” 

“Oh, yes; show him in,” answered Kneebone, and the land- 
lord retired. In a little while there was a knock at the door, 
and Kneebone called out, “Come in.” The door opened, and 
in walked the miller. 

Let us take a good look at him as he stands there, in front of the 
red curtains, the yellow light of the lamp falling full upon him. 
It is twenty years last May since we saw him on the edge of 
the quarry on the moor. There are so many unknown murder- 
ers walking the earth that the chances are that we have seen 
more than one in our time; have probably sat at the same 
table with one; ridden in a railway carriage together, and 
through the darkness of a long tunnel. What a sweet sensa- 
tion we should have had, if we had only known! In the mill- 
er’s case, we happen to know a thing or two, and so our eyes 
are wondrous seeing; but if we had not known, it is a question 
that we should have detected any trace of the murderer in Miller 
Boden. He has grown stout, and his hairless face is large 
and red; his brown eyes are very restless. Still, he looks one 
in the face frankly enough, and his voice is not unpleasant, 


BELOW THE BELT 


23 


though a trifle gruff. His manner, like that of most of us, 
depends upon his temper, and his temper is variable. There 
is something akin to fate in physical organization, and certain 
types of moral character are strangely allied with certain lines 
of bodily structure. As the difference between a saint and a 
sinner may be identical with the quality of the liver, so the 
mental and moral fibre of a man is determined by certain lines 
and curves of physical growth. People are easily classified. 
A few well-known types include most of them. Seeing the in- 
dividual, we recognize the type; knowing the type, we know 
fairly well what to expect of the individual, and we are seldom 
disappointed — for the individual is rarely able to transcend the 
rigorous limitations of his type. On his face, and, for the mat- 
ter of that, on every square inch of his body, nature had pub- 
lished the fact that the miller’s temper was short, fiery, iras- 
cible. In a subtiler way, she had also notified the fact that a 
certain element of sullenness and gloom had modified the orig- 
inal quality of his temper. But people pay very little atten- 
tion to these subtile and vital modifications, of which Nature, 
however, is so very full and fond. Yet cunning as Nature is 
in publishing our secrets, there are some that slip through her 
fingers in a curious fashion. Who would have thought, for in- 
stance, that that florid, well-fed man found night a dreadful 
horror to him? That for twenty years he had awoke nightly 
with a start, and oftentimes a cry, with the groan of a dying 
man in his ears? That for twenty years the sensation of a drop 
of water that had fallen on his under lip had remained with 
him day and night, burning him like an acid? These were 
secrets of which Nature gave no sign, or gave it only in hiero- 
glyphics which no one could read. It is just like the eccen- 
tric dame. Let a man from Asia, Africa, or America pass our 
way, and if he be vain, Nature will write upon him this notice, 
in universal characters, Behold a peacock! Our next-door 
neighbor shall be a forger, a burglar, or a murderer, however, 
and Nature will keep as voiceless as a giraffe. A compara- 
tively blameless creature sets a whole continent curling its lip, 
while a monster may pass to and fro like an angel unawares. 
Not that we would have it understood that the miller was a 
monster. Gladly would he have given all he possessed to be 
able to fish up his brother’s dead body from the old shaft and 
revivify it. 

He was a widower now— his wife, the pretty, piquant Alice 
Duckmanton, having been dead a dozen years or so. She had 
left him with one child, a girl named Ruth, rising eighteen. 
But for Ruth, years agone the miller would have given himself 


24 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


up to justice, and have suffered what penalty the law might 
have inflicted. He had not been happy with his wife, perhaps 
because he felt that he had paid too heavy a price for her; but 
Ruth was his idol. He loved her, not tenderly and Softly, but 
passionately and fiercely, as a tiger its cub. To an on-looker 
there was little or nothing that was humanizing in the miller’s 
love for his daughter. But, then, the on-looker could see only 
what was to be seen, and in every great love there is much that 
is not open to the eye, and there are powers of unguessed good. 

Christopher Kneebone had risen as the miller came into the 
room. 

“ Good-evening, Mr. Boden. Be good enough to take a seat,” 
he said, pointing to the leather-covered sofa, broad-bottomed 
and springless, that stood against the wall to the miller’s left 
hand. 

“ Thank you. I hope I’m not intruding, sir? I wanted to 
have a bit of talk with you about the sale,” said the miller, 
settling himself at the head of the sofa, near the fire. 

Kneebone pushed the circular table some distance back, and 
moved his chair to the other side of the hearth, opposite the 
miller. 

“Do you smoke?” he inquired, as he refilled his pipe. 

“Well, I don’t mind if I do have a pipe, seeing as how you 
are smoking. I’m not much of a hand at it, though.” 

“ That’s right. What will you have to drink ? ” 

“ Hot gin’s my drink.” 

Kneebone rang the bell, and ordered a “ church-warden ” 
and a couple of gins; he furnished his own tobacco. Pipes 
were lighted, glasses touched, healths drunk; then, having duly 
mounted this social platform of fraternity, conversation was in 
order. 

“Pretty lively time this afternoon,” said the miller, puffing 
in that short, quick, unsatisfactory manner peculiar to the oc- 
casional smoker. 

“Yes; the company seemed very interested,” responded 
Kneebone, following the remark with a long series of beautiful 
smoke rings that curved and twisted themselves in every possi- 
ble shape, as they floated slowly upward without breaking 
themselves. 

“It’s been in the Wragg family, you see, so long. I beat 
the squire, at all events; I’m glad of that.” 

“Was that the squire’s agent, then, that you were bidding 
against ? ” 

“ Why, yes ; didn’t you know it ? That’s where the fun came 
in. Some folks backed the squire, and some backed me. 


BELOW THE BELT 


25 


There’s been a lot of money won and lost on the result. Your 
coming ip though, spoiled the game; no offence, sir, I hope?” 

“Not a bit. Sorry I spoiled the game; but I wanted just 
such a place, and, anyway, you made me pay for it.” 

The miller gave a loud laugh. 

“ It ’ud never have done to let a stranger, and, if I might so 
say, a foreigner, come in and walk off with the place for noth- 
ing. But bull-dogs understand each other, sir, and when I had 
tried your mettle, why, dang it, it warn’t the money I knocked 
in to — it was your pluck, Mr. Kneebone. I knew we could 
settle the bargain after.” 

Just then Kneebone picked up his glass, and the miller did 
likewise; and as a token of extra good-will and amity, he 
jingled glasses again. 

“Very good of you, my friend; but I wish you had given in 
to my pluck at seven hundred, instead of eight. It’s a pile of 
good money thrown away, and I’ve none too much of the pre- 
cious dirt.” 

“ It’s nigh on double its worth, I know; but that’s my look- 
out, not yours. What do you say to a thousand down for it ? 
I know of a place a few miles from here, just as pretty, that 
can be bought for less than one-half of what I offer you.” 

Christopher Kneebone sat looking at the toe of the boot he 
was nursing on his knee, for some time in silence. At last he 
said, “You seem to want the place badly, miller?” 

“Well, I don’t mind saying I do. You see, the bit of land 
adjoins mine by the river.” 

“I see. I don’t know but what we might come to terms 
about the land. I should like to oblige you if I could.” 

The miller coughed, and moved about on his seat, before he 
said: “It’s very neighborly of you, Mr. Kneebone— very neigh- 
borly indeed; but — well, I want the smithy as much if not more 
than I want the land.” 

Kneebone shook his head as he answered: “Sorry I can’t 
oblige you, Mr. Boden; but I cannot. If the land’s any good, 
I’ll try and let you have that. But I’ve set my heart on the 
smithy.” 

The miller’s face grew redder. “Why, you are no smith, 
are you?” he cried, almost savagely. Kneebone gave a slight 
start and, looking keenly at his companion, asked, “ What do 
you mean ? ” 

“I only thought as how you don’t look much like a smith. 
You should have seen Jack Wragg’s hands,” replied the miller, 

With a laugh. . 

Mechanically, Kneebone opened his hands and examined 


26 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


them on both sides. The backs were bronzed and somewhat 
hairy, but the palms and the inside of the fingers were white 
and soft-looking. There were no callosities at the roots of the 
fingers, no grime inwrought into the lines of the hands. In no 
sense were they the horny hands of toil. Having finished his 
examination, Kneebone looked at the miller, and with an odd 
expression of countenance remarked: 

“ I don’t know but what you are right. They do look in 
rather prime condition, I confess; but a twelvemonth’s idleness 
and plenty of soap and water will do wonders. I guess I can 
soon toughen them up again, though.” 

“Then you want the place for yourself, it seems?” said the 
miller, beginning to think that perhaps he had been a little 
too familiar with the future blacksmith of Voe. He had 
stepped into the shoes of Miller Duckmanton, and to the inher- 
ited ten talents had added other ten talents, and was now justly 
esteemed a man of some substance. And it was not for any 
smith of Voe — though he was fool enough to pay a fancy 
price for his forge — to put himself on a level with Miller Boden. 
But in this crude world, compromise is the order of the day all 
round; and as the miller had an object to gain, he tactically 
refrained from any quick assertion of his superior position. 

Answered Kneebone: “Why, certainly. I’m not so strong as 
I used to be, and shall want a good hand to help me; but I’m 
not here to play the gentleman. They tell me that Jack 
Wragg’s man is a pretty good hand. Do you know anything 
of him ? ” 

“Yes, I do; and to tell you the truth, between ourselves, it 
is on his account mainly that I am anxious about the smithy,” 
said the miller, moving uneasily in his seat. 

“ Indeed ! I didn’t know that. He’s some relation of yours, 
isn’t he? Same name?” 

“Yes; he’s my nephew. But I’m not over-proud of him. 
His father had to fly the country twenty years ago; we had a 
quarrel, and he pitched me down a nasty cliff on the moor. It 
was a wonder I wasn’t killed outright,” said the miller, in a 
hoarse voice. 

“Has he never been heard of since?” inquired Kneebone, 
shading his face from the light with his hand. 

“ No. I judge he’s dead by this time.” 

“ And what about his lad ? ” 

“ Oh, we don’t get on together. I never took to him, and I 
should be glad to see him leave the place for good.” 

“ I understand. Does he drink ? ” 

“ No; but he is a queer fellow: roams about at all hours of 


BELOW THE BELT 


27 


the night; pretends to be after insects and all kinds of ver- 
min; but I shouldn’t be surprised if he got nabbed for poach- 
ing some day, and serve him right, too! ” 

“ What sort of a workman is he ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing to brag of. I could put you in the way of 
getting as good a workman as him, any day. I shouldn’t care 
for it to be known that I had a hand in it; but if you could see 
your way to oblige me in the matter, I reckon we could square 
things in the way of trade.” 

“ If I don’t employ him, then, you think he would have to 
leave the place, eh ? ” 

“ That’s just it. He is good for nothing but smithery. He 
couldn’t live and grow fat on insects.” 

“ No; they are not feeding. Well, I’m glad, very glad, Mr. 
Boden, to have had this talk with you, and I hope we shall be 
good neighbors. I’ll think it over about young Boden: there’s 
no cause for hurry in the matter,” answered Kneebone. And 
a little later the miller, with a feeling of elation, took his 
leave. 


CHAPTER III 


INVOKING JUPITER 

The next morning, after an early breakfast, Christopher 
Kneebone — over whose identity, courteous and sapient reader, 
we can afford to let the thin veil still fall — was driven in the 
landlord’s trap to the nearest railway station, a distance of 
four and a half miles, where he booked through to London. It 
was a tough journey through the heavy snowdrifts, and more 
than once Kneebone and the driver had to get out, and with 
spades with which they had luckily provided themselves, cut a 
passage for the horse and trap. It was understood that Knee- 
bone would return in the course of a week or so, when he would 
begin putting the Wragg place in trim. In the interval, Voe 
discussed the new-comer pretty thoroughly. It was evident 
that he had both money and pluck — two things that Voe had a 
great liking for. The poor are the last to respect poverty, and 
the timid timidity. The bulk of the Voese were poor and 
timid, and had Kneebone seemed to be in the same boat with 
themselves, he would soon have learnt to his cost what it was 
to intrude himself into a community where he was not wanted. 
As it was, he was discussed with the respect that is born of 
fear, and with the discretion that is said to be the better part 
of valor. The man who could beat the miller, who had beaten 
the squire, was evidently a man that could hold his own and 
give change for sixpence, blacksmith or no blacksmith. On 
this latter point there was for some days a considerable differ- 
ence of opinion. That Christopher Kneebone was a common, 
every-day blacksmith was scouted by most as an absurdity. 
What he had been years agone, it was not for them to say; but 
anybody with half an eye could see that he had not played a 
tattoo on the anvil for many a year. He had bought the place 
because he had got the money and the pluck; maybe he had 
got somebody ready to put into it — maybe he would rent it. 

Of old, every tribe had its bard, every clan its minstrel; and 
there are but few communities, however small and secluded, 
that have not in their midst a native-born romancist. Voe was 
no exception to this rule, and now was a fine opportunity for 


INVOKING JUPITER 


2 9 


the man with the thin bright streak of imagination. The op- 
portunity was seized, and Voe suddenly found itself, on the 
third day, tingling with excitement at the report that Christo- 
pher Kneebone was simply an agent of Squire Saxton, who had 
taken this means of circumventing the miller! The idea was 
juicy and full of meat, and found favor with many palates. It 
had been sucked pretty dry and clean, and was ready to be 
thrown aside like an empty orange-skin, when it was solemnly 
announced by Am Ende to be “all rot,” on the saying of the 
miller himself, who knew what he was talking about. 

Am was the handy man, the Jack-of-all-trades, and typical 
ne’er-do-well of the village. Seldom quite drunk and never 
quite sober, his principles were an unknown quantity, and his 
practices were morally piebald. He swore like a trooper, and 
was credited with being good-natured. No one dreamt of call- 
ing him idle, yet he was never known to have done a good 
honest day’s work in his life. Properly handled, he might 
have developed into a lay preacher, or a political stump-orator, 
for he had a glib tongue and an insinuating manner; but cir- 
cumstances had kneaded him into the clay, and only the mould 
was wanting to shape him into a most serviceable kind of rogue. 
He did a good many odd jobs for the miller, whom he served 
with the fawning fidelity of a low-bred cur. So when Am 
swaggered up and down the place affirming with many strange 
oaths that it was “all rot, for the miller was a-going to buy 
the land of Mr. Kneebone, and had struck his lucky on the bar- 
gain,” the idea of Kneebone being a secret agent of the squire 
died a natural death. And his neighbors, being creatures of 
prejudice, turned round on the poor romancist and dubbed him 
a liar. Sic itur ad astra ! 

Certain cynical persons have been known to doubt if there is 
in nature such a thing as a public mind; but on the whole it 
is perhaps the safer opinion to hold that the public has a mind 
of its own. And when its mind is exercised on any given sub- 
ject, there springs up within it, like weeds in an ill-tended 
garden, a magnificent crop of idle stories and sensational re- 
ports. If you pull up one weed, another quickly takes its 
place. This is just what happened in the little section of the 
great world-mind called Voe. The secret-agent idea being up- 
rooted, its place was occupied by the report that Christopher 
Kneebone had undertaken not to employ young Abel Boden as 
his assistant. 

Some said this was out of common respect for the miller, 
whose feelings toward his nephew were no secret; others, that 
the miller had spoken to Kneebone on the subject; while a 


3 ° 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


third party were cocksure that Abel Boden had been offered the 
place and had refused it. By the bulk of the natives, however, 
this last version of the case was looked upon as dogma pure 
and simple; especially as its adherents, like dogmatists in gen- 
eral, .were so cocksure that they waxed wroth or scornful when 
pressed for proof. But, travelling by different roads, they nev- 
ertheless all reached Rome. All agreed that Abel Boden was 
not going to work for Christopher Kneebone. With a few sig- 
nificant and a few insignificant exceptions, everybody was sorry 
at the news; nothing more to the praise of Voe could well be 
said. For Abel, though born and bred in the place, was very 
much of a stranger and no little of a mystery to the Voese. 
He was a capital workman — Jack Wragg would not have kept 
him a month if he had not been equal to any smith in the val- 
ley — but he was never by any chance to be met with in that 
local House of Commons, the Nag’s Head. He was good- 
tempered, genial, had a nod for every man, and a remark on 
the weather or a “How d’ye do?” for every woman; the chil- 
dren loved him with their own sweet, selfish love. But he had 
no companions, and, worse than all, no sweetheart. 

The maidens of Voe, a bonnie brigade — I wish that half a 
dozen of their portraits could have faced this page, for pret- 
tier illustrations no writer could desire — said some very hard 
and cruel and false things about him; but they did not believe 
a word of it in their hearts, wherein they cockered a sneaking 
affection for the gentle monster. Of a retiring disposition, 
shy and touched with melancholy, people said that he brooded 
over his father’s misfortune. 

For some years now Abel had lived with old Nathan Wass, 
the broom-maker, in the weird-looking cottage built of tufa- 
stone, on the edge of the wood under the moor. Folk called 
Nathan old because he was turned eighty, which Nathan himself 
thought was a very poor reason, seeing that his back was still 
straight and his eyes were undimmed, and his feelings were as 
fresh and lusty as any young fellow of fifty could desire. Many 
was the time that Nathan said to young Abel : “ Cheer up, lad. 
Thy father’s none dead; he’s making money in some foreign 
land, you may depend on it. Some day he will break silence, and 
let us know how he’s getting along.” And for a long time 
Abel found comfort in the words, and bore up bravely; but as 
year after year went by, and no tidings came, he began to lose 
hope, and his heart grew sad and his spirit melancholy. He 
withdrew himself more and more from company, sought soli- 
tude, and foregathered with the souls of lonely places and the 
silent spirits of the rocks and the trees. And these threw over 


INVOKING JUPITER 


3 * 


him something of their own mystery and gloom. Yet, without 
knowing it, he was imbibing the best of all tonics, and strength- 
ening the secret roots of his sanity. 

The man who as a lad of five knew the names of all the trees 
and the flowers, and could tell which hive a passing bee came 
from, was not heading for insanity when he took to the moors 
and the woods. It looked a bit uncanny of him, after a hard 
day’s work, to set out with his gun and a curious assortment of 
bottles and box es, to spend the greater part of the night roam- 
ing in the fields and the woods. 

The keepers viewed him with no little of suspicion, though 
his rig-out and general character were scarcely those of a 
poacher; but though they kept a sharp eye on him at first, they 
let him alone, for he carried in his pocket Squire Saxton’s writ- 
ten permission to carry a gun all over the estate, which took 
in miles of woo dland and moor. This night-hunting after birds 
and moths and beetles, and all kinds of curious vermin, was 
something that Voe could not understand; it did not legiti- 
mately belong to any sane man’s work, much less a black- 
smith’s. The neighbors wagged their heads over it in a sol- 
emn manner; had it been any one else than Abel Boden, they 
would have wa gged their tongues also. 

Meanwhile, Abel, had revived his passion for woodcraft, and 
had developed into an enthusiastic naturalist; he made a splen- 
did collection of nocturnal birds, which he stuffed himself — of 
plants and insects. He studied from nature the principles of 
the fox, the morals of the badger, and the politics of the pole- 
cat. The nuisance was — there was no money in it. If he 
could only have made it self-paying he would gladly have 
dropped his hammer for good, and have devoted himself to 
natural-history pursuits. His inability to do this bred a little 
bitter root of discontent with his lot; but, on the other hand, 
his close and loving contact with nature was an antidote to 
melancholy, and fed his spirit with the sweet and healthful 
juices of life. 

It was a sad day for Abel when he heard the news that was 
on everybody’s tongue, that Christopher Kneebone was about 
to dispense with his services. He was still at the forge daily, 
doing bits of work that could not well wait, and keeping the 
thing going, as it were. Every few minutes, the whole day 
long, somebody would drop in and express their regret that he 
was going to leave. One or two of them mentioned the rumor 
that he had refused to work for Kneebone, and asked him if he 
had got another place. “ Nay, I’ve not been asked, nor said a 
word on the subject that I know of. Truth is, I haven’t spoken 


32 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


a word to him yet,” answered Abel; and in half an hour the 
whole village knew of his answer. That night Abel stayed in 
and spent his time rearranging some dried plants. The little 
room was bright with the firelight, and through the uncurtained 
window was visible the black face of a steep cliff, with a nar- 
row slip of moonlit sky at the top. 

“Thoumustna let it fret thee, lad; for them as talks so much 
nowadays mostly lie. Why should Mr. Kneebone give thee 
the sack without trying thee first ? That’s what I would like to 
know,” said Nathan, puffing slowly his short clay pipe, black 
as ebony, as he sat in his arm-chair by the fire. 

‘‘They say as how the miller has been at him,” said Abel, 
from a stool on the other side of the hearth. 

“ Happen he has: he’s mean enow for that. But he isna 
everybody. I, for one, can say as many good words for thee 
as he can bad uns. And I will, and others will too. Drat 
him ! I’ll have a talk with the squire, if it comes to that. ” 

“ Nay, it isn’t worth while, Nathan, thank you. I might as 
well go now as later; he’ll drive me out one way or another. 
I’m afraid I shall feel mighty lonesome and homesick, though, 
when I’ve left the old place.” 

“Thou art like thy father, lad. He thought as how roaming 
’ud kill him. But thou art none gone yet — no, no, thou art 
none gone yet, lad. Come to that, I can find thee work enow; 
I’ve more than I can get through.” 

Abel shook his head and answered: “That’ll none work, Na- 
than. I’m not up to broom-making, and I’ll live by my own 
hands, if I have to break stones on the road. ” 

“ And who wants thee to idle ? Not me. I say I can double 
my trade in a month, if I only get somebody to help me. 
Thou art o’er-proud lad — o’er-proud.” 

“Happen I am; but it’s in the blood, and it will stay there, 

I hope. My trade is smithery, and I know what I’m worth at 
it. I’m not worth my salt outside of it. Ay, if these things 
would only get me a crust of bread, I’d live on it and be 
thankful,” exclaimed Abel, touching with his foot a pile of 
half a dozen cases filled with beautiful specimens of insects. 

“It’s a rich man’s hobby thou art riding, more’s the pity. 
But never mind, lad; happen they are worth to thee more than 
money. They look as how they might be themselves the little 
devils, black and blue and green, and the Lord knows what 
color, that one time made us how they ’ud get into thee and 
eat thee up. But thou ’It none leave, lad. Come to that, and 
demme if I don’t put a flea into thy uncle’s ear that’ll bite 


INVOKING JUPITER 


33 


like an adder! ” cried the old man, his face working with pas- 
sion, while he shook his fist at the fire. 

Little more was said on the subject, but it had hold of Na- 
than, and kept him awake most of the night. The thought of 
losing Abel, to whom he had become strongly attached, was 
more than the old man could stand. He had begun by advis- 
ing Abel not to fret about it, and here he was tossing about 
restlessly on his bed, and unable to get a wink of sleep, for 
fretting about it. 

In the morning, breakfast over and Abel off to work, Nathan 
went into the little workshop at the back of the house and be- 
gan splitting bands for the brooms. He worked two or three 
hours; then he got up, and locking up the house and hiding the 
key under the ivy at the end of the workshop, where Abel would 
be able to find it, he entered the wood that covered the steep 
slope in front of the cottage. Twenty minutes later he 
emerged from the wood on the top of the hill, and, crossing 
a stile, entered Voe park. Half a mile away, the chimneys of 
the Hall were visible above the tops of the trees, and Nathan 
made in that direction. He walked slowly, with hesitation in 
his gait. He felt he was about to do a bold thing; and though 
he thought all the world of the squire, and knew he would be 
treated kindly, he was none the less nervous. But the mis- 
chievous and erratic imp, whose pleasure is to so manipulate 
circumstances as to thwart and disappoint the expectations and 
desires of mankind, is sometimes in a genial mood, and plays 
into our hands with a mock beneficence. Squinting through 
the gray clouds at Nathan, and peradventure noting that he had 
had eighty years of fun out of him, said imp grew kind, and 
gently taking the old man by the ear, led him, as it were, into 
a green pasture instead of a slimy bog. Nathan came to two 
roads: the one to the left, running over the high shoulder of 
land, was the shorter way to the Hall; the one to the right, 
dipping down into the hollow, and running round a thick 
growth of oak-trees, was the longer way by a quarter of a mile. 

Nathan stood still, as if undecided which way to take. 
Gumption the one-eyed — born guide of blind men — tugged at 
his left side. Nathan, not knowing who was pulling it, put up 
his hand and scratched his right ear; then he bore to the right, 
and went on toward the oaks — Gumption scolding like a fish- 
wife, Imp smiling like a seraph. Half-way round the belt of 
oaks, whom should he meet but the squire, gun in hand and a 
couple of setters by his side! Poor Gumption fell suddenly 
dumb. 


3 


34 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“ Good-morning, Nathan. Glad to see you looking so hearty. 
Are you never going to grow old ? ” 

“Good-morning, squire, and thank you. Happen I shall 
never feel old in this world, sir, no more than these oaks. I 
mind them being planted, sir, seventy years ago this very 
spring.” 

“That is a long time ago. Were you by at the time?” 

“ I was, sir. It seems only yesterday, so to speak. There 
was the old squire, your grandfather, sir, and his lady, and a 
couple of young ladies as was a-staying at the Hall. The 
squire, your father, sir, married the prettiest of ’them. The 
ladies had little spades with silver handles, and planted every 
one of them a tree apiece. Young Luke Boden, the miller’s 
father, had the overseeing of the job; and — if I might be so 
bold, sir, I’d like to say a word to you about young Abel, the 
smith, sir.” 

“Certainly, Nathan; what is it? I thought a great deal of 
his father, poor fellow,” said the squire, putting his back 
against a tree, and by the same token giving Nathan to under- 
stand that he was in no hurry: a small action, but one the 
broom-maker thoroughly understood and appreciated. The 
turn given to the conversation was sufficiently abrupt, but the 
squire manifested no surprise. The working of the rustic mind 
was to him no novelty. 

Said Nathan slowly, “ It’s the talk of the place, sir, as how 
Mr. Kneebone, the new smith, as has bought poor Jack Wragg’s 
place, isna a-going to keep on Abel, sir.” 

“Indeed! I am sorry to hear that. What sort of a man is 
this Kneebone? Do you know anything of him?” 

“ No, sir, naught. I saw him at the sale, sir, and he looked 
anything but a likely man for a smith.” 

“I hear he has come from foreign parts — America, I think.” 

“ Like as not, sir. Them Yankees are all gents, to their 
own way of thinking. I’ve heard as how their last president, as 
they call him, was brought up a smith, sir. Maybe Mr. Knee- 
bone has been a president?” 

The squire laughed. “ Not likely, Nathan, or he would hardly 
step into Jack Wragg’s shoes. Why is he discharging Abel?” 

“They say, sir, that Miller Boden has been at him.” 

“Oh, I see. Well, it is rather mean of a man to persecute 
his own flesh and blood in that way.” 

“And the lad never so much as said a spiteful word agenhim 
all his life. Drat him! if I was Abel I’d give him a downright 
cussing, and see if it happen to do him good,” said Nathan, 
with no little energy. 


INVOKING JUPITER 35 

“ I am not sure but what it would do him good,” laughed the 
squire. 

“ No doubt on it, sir, if it was only followed up with a taste 
of good stout ash. Drat it! I’m none too old to do it neither, 
sir, on occasion.” 

“ Oh, come, I mustn’t have you brought up before me charged 
with assault and battery. Seriously, I have been very dis- 
pleased with the miller lately. The way he opposed Mr. Sims 
at the sale was anything but neighborly.” 

“Shameful, sir, just shameful. And I’ve bethought me, sir, 
as how you might put in a word for Abel, if you would be so 
kind, sir?” 

“How do you mean, Nathan?” 

“With Mr. Kneebone, sir. I reckon he ’ud rather oblige 
you, sir, than the miller. You find him six times as much work 
as he does, sir.” 

The squire looked studiously at the rooks. 

“I canna abide to think of him leaving, sir; and you mind 
what a good servant his poor father was, sir. ” 

“Yes, yes, poor fellow; I’d give something to know what 
became of him. Well, Nathan, I’ll do what I can for him. 
Good-morning." And whistling his dogs, the squire passed on. 


CHAPTER IV 


MOTH-HUNTING IN WINTER 

Yewdale Bridge lies in a hollow, surrounded by high, well- 
wooded hills. From whatever point of the compass you ap- 
proach it, the town lies deep below you; and in summer, when 
it is imbedded in foliage, it suggests a nest full of eggs. Some- 
how there seems no sufficient reason why the town should be 
where it is, and one always comes upon it with a feeling of 
surprise. It dates from the Deluge; and its market-day is on 
Tuesday, on which day it collects within itself, as in a natural 
reservoir, many streams of rustic humanity. In a bee-line it 
is about five miles from Voe; but as mortals travel, corkscrew- 
wise, it is nearly seven. 

In Voe dialect, it was “markut-day at Yewdle Brig.” The 
snow lay hard upon the ground, and the gray, motionless 
clouds, that had hidden the sun for a whole week, seemed to 
lie as hard and solid against the sky. It was difficult to retain 
one’s respect for the sun, to say nothing of the moon and the 
stars, in front of that all-conquering, cruel-faced cloud. The 
pallid, shivering daylight had crept timidly for some few hours 
across the cruel face, and had vanished at last, like a fright- 
ened ghost, down the mysterious slopes in the west, where lie 
the graves of the Bright Ones. Then darkness sprang forth 
from its secret lair, and overran the face of the earth. 

Through an open door and a low, wide, diamond-paned win- 
dow of the miller’s house at Voe, came the bright and cheerful 
light from a roaring wood-fire. It fell in splashes upon the 
snow in the court-yard, the bright flames bringing out the white- 
ness as they leaped up at intervals, while the ruddy glow of 
the fire warmed various snowy projections into a semblance of 
its own color. The house stands away from the road, which is 
some distance below it, and at night it looks as though it were 
buried in a wood. A steep slope is at the back, covered with 
pines and larches, and there is a sound of running water among 
the trees. Taken as a square, the house forms one side, the 
road below another; the left side is formed of cow-sheds with 
granaries above them, with the mill at the farther end; on the 


MOTH-HUNTING IN WINTER 


37 


right side, opposite the mill, is a stack-yard, then comes an 
orchard, and lastly a garden, devoted to vegetables until it 
nears the house, when it becomes transformed into a sweet med- 
ley of fruits and flowers. In the stack-yard are five or six ricks, 
mostly hay, parallelogrammatic in shape, with thatched hip- 
roofs. Near to one of these stand a man and a maiden. Are 
they lovers? 

The night is raw and biting cold; but the man’s hands are 
not in his pockets, and the girl has not even a shawl over her 
shoulders, yet both are as warm as toast-and-butter. Does not 
their temperature betray them ? It is too dark to see the fea- 
tures of the girl, but there is light enough from the snow to re- 
veal the fact that she is tall and of graceful figure. 

“When do you expect the miller back from Yewdle Brig?” 
inquires the man, as the sound of wheels crunching the snow 
becomes audible. 

Surely, surely we have heard that voice before, gentle, musi- 
cal, and touched with melancholy! It is the voice of the gen- 
tle monster whose condemnation, in the hearts of the maidens 
of Voe, is that he has no sweetheart, unless it is some great 
spotted moth. The girl listens a moment or two to the sound 
of wheels before she answers: 

“That is not father’s trap, it is too heavy. But I expect him 
back soon. Let us talk about it, Abel. You don’t really 
think that father has had anything to do with it, do you?” 

“ I am not sure, of course. But it is what they all say. 
And Am Ende doesn’t say nay.” 

“Oh, I hate him, the wretch! If he is not a rogue, he ought 
to be prosecuted for obtaining a character under false pre- 
tences! ” 

“You are no friend of Am’s, I’m afraid, Ruth?’’ said Abel, 
with a laugh. 

“He is a cunning, idle knave — that is my opinion of him, 
and I fancy he knows it; but never mind him. Abel, you 
won’t think of going away?” 

“ Why not ? Who would fret ? ” 

“ Everybody in the place would.” 

“ Everybody means nobody.” 

“ Would Nathan Wass fret ? ” 

“Ah, yes! I beg his pardon, dear old fellow. I think he 
would miss me a bit.” 

“And nobody else?” asks Ruth, drawing three inches nearer 
to Abel. 

“ No, nobody else.” 

“O Abel, for shame! I should cry my eyes out. I couldn’t 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


38 

get on without you now, laddie. You are my all,” cries Ruth, 
with something in her voice that Abel has never heard before. 

A quick, strong thrill goes through him. The lover has ever 
a fox’s eye, and can see in the dark. Abel gives one glance, 
then he opens his arms and closes them — with Ruth inside. It 
is their first embrace, and having as yet no idea of economy of 
force, there is a needless expenditure of strength. Vigor makes 
up what may be lacking in grace, in this first, sweet, strong 
clasp of love. 

Having half-smothered her, Abel murmurs, “ Say it again, 
darling. Say that you love me, that I am your all. It goes 
through me like a great gust of life. Say it, sweetheart! ” 

“Yes; you are my all , my all, MY ALL!” 

There is another needless expenditure of strength, which is 
checked of a sudden by Ruth saying in a low, quick voice: 

“That’s the trap coming round the corner! What in the 
world were we doing not to have heard ? Be careful, dearest. 
Good-night.” 

A hurried kiss, and Ruth speeds along the court-yard and en- 
ters the house, as the miller, leaving the turnpike road, slowly 
ascends the short, steep lane leading to the mill. 

Meanwhile, Abel has dropped from the rick-yard into the 
thick pine-holt at the side, and going down the hill as the 
miller comes up, reappears at the point where the lane joins 
the road. And there we may leave him, for we have seen 
enough of the gentle rustic naturalist for one night. The 
scamp! — a pretty kind of moth-hunting indeed! 

In the little sitting-room at the Nag’s Head sat Christopher 
Kneebone. He had arrived unexpectedly in the afternoon. 
While a fire was being lighted and the room warmed, Knee- 
bone went upstairs and lay down, being tired, as he said, with 
travelling all night. 

It was dark when the maid knocked at his door and said, 
“If you please, sir, tea will be ready in ten minutes.” 

In ten minutes Kneebone was downstairs. The fire, a red, 
glowing mass, was half-way up the chimney; a couple of lamps 
— one on the sideboard and another on the centre-table — filled 
the room with light. Kneebone stood on the hearth, with his 
back to the fire and his hands behind him, and made a critical 
survey of the table. The cloth was spotlessly white, the china 
was fine, and knives and forks and spoons and cruet-stand shone 
resplendently. There was a thoroughbred look about the am- 
ber-crusted loaf of home-baked bread and the roll of kingcup- 
tinted butter, while the cream in the large glass jug looked 


MOTH-HUNTING IN WINTER 


39 


proud and pure. The boiled ham, newly cut into, looked quite 
coquettish with its sprigs of parsley and bracelet of ruffled pipk 
paper, though it was not altogether successful in its attempt to 
eclipse the great joint of cold beef, that stood upon the side- 
board as if conscious of its rich flavor and mellow beauty. A 
couple of wee dunce’s-caps, worked in pale blue and gold and 
white shades of wool, attracted Kneebone’s attention ; he 
stepped forward and lifted one of them up gently, with thumb 
and finger, as if it had been a delicate insect. Underneath, in 
gold-and-white cup, was a boiled egg with a face as brown 
as a gypsy’s skin. Then there were hot muffins, and bright 
golden marmalade, and sundry preserves, whose charms were 
lost upon the tobacco-loving palate of the hungry creature, 
whose jaws began to ache with sweet desire. Presently he sat 
down and began the glad work of destruction. No: we will 
let the eggs pass, and the marmalade, and the muffins; we will 
not count the number of slices of ham and cuts of beef; we 
will be blind to the rapidly attenuating shapes of butter and 
bread, and it would have been idiocy not to have made hot 
love to the languishing cream. The man was hungry with a 
noble omnivorous, and, for a goodly time, unappeasable hun- 
ger. And if the victuals had any inkling of their destiny, 
they were questionless proud of ministering to such a primal 
appetite, unweakened by any taint of dyspepsia, and right glad 
to find such a mill to grind them into elements of humanity. 

The repast was nearly ended, and Kneebone, who had been 
going like an express train, was slackening speed as he ap- 
proached the terminus, when the landlord came in with an air 
of excitement. 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Kneebone, but Squire Saxton would 
like to see you,” he said, panting like a man out of breath. 

“The squire!” exclaimed Kneebone; then he added in a 
different — that is to say, an indifferent— tone, “ Who is Squire 
Saxton ? ” 

“Why, bless me, he’s the squire, neither more nor less! 
Shall I show him into the best room for you?” 

“ No. He is not a king’s son, I suppose, nor an angel from 
heaven, is he?” 

“Lors! no, sir; he’s a bigger man than that: he owns all 
round here for miles.” 

“ Indeed ! How did he know I had arrived ? ” inquired Knee- 
bone, slicing a large wafer from the joint. 

“He just put his head inside the door and said, ‘Hey, Jerry! 
has Mr. Kneebone got back yet ? ’ 

“‘Yes, squire,’ says I, all of a fluster. 


40 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


‘“Will you tell him I should like to speak with him for a 
f^w minutes?’ says he. And we mustn’t keep him a-waiting, 
you know.” 

“All right; show him in.” 

“ Not in here, Mr. Kneebone! It isn’t the place for him, you 
know — not with all these things about.” 

“Ho! Then take him into the bar, give him a pipe and a 
glass of hot Scotch — you can put it in my bill, you know — and 
tell him to make himself comfortable till I have finished this 
joint and picked the bones clean. Then I will join him with 
a pipe,” said Kneebone, slowly and deliberately. 

The landlord’s under jaw dropped, and his eyes opened wide 
with amazement and horror. A short, sandy-whiskered man 
was the landlord, with no trace of jolly Boniface about him. 
Of sanguine temperament, and with a well-developed bump of 
veneration, he bore the lively name of Jerry Hearse. Yokel 
wit, which “keeps the ground and never soars,” knew him fa- 
miliarly as “the Bierman. ” 

“My stars! I’d much liefer jump into the Scarthin!” he 
gasped, wondering to himself how a quiet and decent-seeming 
man like his guest could come by such monstrous notions. He 
looked at the roof, but it showed no signs of falling! — at 
Kneebone, who continued to swallow and was unchoked ! Then 
the squire-worshipper called to mind that the mill of the gods 
grinds slowly but it grinds exceeding small; and he was com- 
forted. 

Said Kneebone sardonically, “ I have no objection to offer, 
•if you prefer it.” 

Whereat the landlord seemed a trifle staggered, and recon- 
sidering the position, made answer: 

“Happen it’ll be better to show him in here.” 

“As you like,” replied Kneebone coolly, as the landlord 
turned and left the room. 

No sooner was the door closed than Kneebone rose quickly 
and made a dash for the gilt-framed mirror, encircled with yel- 
low gauze, which stood on the mantel-piece. What would 
have seemed natural enough in a woman seemed odd in a man, 
and one who was as free from any trace of vanity as an owl. 
Arrived at the glass, a woman would have gone through a 
series of swift and dexterous movements of the hands; she 
would have touched her hair, her face, her throat gear, her 
ornaments, and any bits of lace or ribbon in sight ; and every 
touch would have told for better or worse — for better, if we 
were betting on it — in the picture of her own sweet self. His 
little black tie was unfastened, a button of his waistcoat was 


MOTH-HUNTING IN WINTER 


41 


open, two crumbs were caught like flies in the meshes of his 
chestnut beard; but Christopher Kneebone did not raise a fin- 
ger to set himself to rights. Apparently he only gave a search- 
ing look at his own countenance, then with an audible sigh he 
stepped back to his seat, and began afresh the discussion of 
muffins and marmalade. 

The door opened, the curtains were pushed aside, and Jerry 
Hearse, obsequious as a lap-dog, announced “ The squire, sir — 
Squire Saxton, Mr. Kneebone.” 

“That will do, Hearse. You can leave us now,” said the 
squire, a little brusquely. If he had his worshippers — and 
great men, like coins, have their natural parasites — the squire 
had no great respect for them or their worship. Hearse van- 
ished like a shot. 

Kneebone had risen, and now, with his serviette in his left 
hand, he bowed slightly to his visitor and said, “Good-even- 
ing, sir. I am just finishing my tea, but that need not inter- 
fere with our talk. Will you take a seat, sir, on the sofa? I 
suppose it is no use offering you a cup of tea?” 

“ Thank you, but I don’t mind if I do take a cup. I am 
afraid I came in at a very unseasonable time, but ” 

“No apology is needed, sir. I call their tea tiptop here, 
which is something remarkable. Good tea at a hotel is as rare 
as snow in harvest,” said Kneebone, ringing the bell, which 
was answered in a flash by Hearse himself. 

“ Bring in another cup and saucer for the squire, please, and 
another hot muffin.” 

“Yes, sir; thank you, sir; in a moment or two, sir,” said 
Hearse, retreating precipitately, overwhelmed with the idea of 
Squire Saxton drinking tea, like any common man, in the Nag’s 
Head with Mr. Kneebone. He felt that it dignified him, dig- 
nified the Nag’s Head, dignified Mr. Kneebone, dignified Mar- 
tha the maid who toasted the squire’s muffin, dignified Mrs. 
Hearse who buttered it; and yet, somehow, it was as wonderful 
and mysterious as any of the ways of Providence. Indeed, it 
had a real smack of a genuine old-fashioned miracle, thought 
Jerry; and straightway he had a solemn feeling come over 
him, and a sense of having been to church. 

“Now, Jerry, the muffin is ready, and you mind you don’t 
go and drop the cup and saucer, which is one of poor Aunt 
Maria’s blue-and-gold set, and I wouldn’t have ’em broke, not 
for no money,” said Mrs. Hearse to her spouse. 

There was good reason for her caution, for Jerry was very 
excited, and moved about very much like a cat on hot 
tiles. 


42 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


Kneebone poured the squire a cup of tea, and said, “You 
will sugar and cream for yourself, squire.” 

“Thank you,” answered the squire, putting a chair to the 
table and sitting down. He pronounced the muffin good and 
the tea capital. 

“ Try another cup, won’t you ? ” 

“I think I will, and I will have a bit of that crust with it,” 
said the man of many acres, seizing the bread-knife and cut- 
ting off the clean smooth amber crust half-way down the side 
of the loaf. He cut it into narrow slips, and soaking them in 
his tea, ate them slowly and with evident relish. 

“I fancy you will find Voe rather a quiet little place. You 
have travelled, I understand?” said the squire, enjoying the 
novelty of the situation. He was a man of strong prejudices, 
and had already taken a great liking to Christopher Kneebone. 
There is much of the irrational in the likings and dislikings of 
most of us. 

“Well, yes, I’m one of the rolling stones of the race.” 

“ I have known some of those stones to gather pretty well of 
moss, though, in the teeth of the old proverb. I hope you are 
one of them. Been to India, may I ask ? ” 

“ No, sir, I am sorry to say I have not, but hope to some 
day. New Zealand, Australia, Canada, and the States have 
been my camping-grounds. ” 

“ A pretty wide pasture to feed in. I suppose you are tired 
of roaming now, and have chosen Voe to go to sleep in?” 

“ That’s about it, sir. There is no grass so green nor sky so 
blue as Old England’s. Many a time I used to think that my 
poor ghost would be restless and unhappy, if I was not buried 
under English sod. Curious, sir, how English folk, who go 
everywhere and do everything, and scutter about the world like 
rabbits in their native warren, yearn for Old England like 
babies for their mothers’ breasts,” said Kneebone, with an ac- 
cent of personal experience that was almost pathetic. 

“Yes, come to think of it, it is funny. How do you account 
for it ? ” 

“ Don’t know there is any accounting for it, unless it be that 
there is so much of the land in us, and so much of us in the 
land.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 

“ Supposing that there had never been a funeral in England, 
never a grave dug from John-o’-Groat’s to Land’s End, but, from 
the Romans down, every dead body had been thrown into the 
sea or carried to some foreign land. There would have been 
an immense quantity of human dust missing, there would have 


MOTH-HUNTING IN WINTER 


43 


been so much less soil in the land, and what there had been 
would have lacked something it has got now. We live on the 
soil, sir, and we have put hundreds of millions of tons of sa-« 
cred and beloved dust into the ground, and mixed it like a 
leaven in the earth. And somehow I fancy there’s a kind of 
blood-kinship now between us and Old England.” 

“ A pretty theory, at any rate, Mr. Kneebone. I don’t know 
that I exactly follow you or go with you. Singular notion 
rather, but at bottom there is something in it, no doubt. In 
some way it seems to put a touch of life and affection into the 
land; and, come to think of it, why, the land’s chock-full of 
it,” said the squire. 

“ Chock-full of it, sir! Town men don’t know it, maybe, but 
country men do.” 

“Ha! you like the country, then?” 

“Well, yes. I’ve seen a lot of town life in my time, but — 
the country for me. It is my Jerusalem, which I prefer above 
my chief joy.” 

“ I am glad to hear it, Mr. Kneebone. It is a mark of sanity. 

I should have thought that you and young Abel Boden would 
have hit it off together very well. He is quite a naturalist, I 
believe.” 

“You mean Boden the smith?” 

“Yes. There is some talk, I believe, of his leaving the vil- 
lage. I should be very sorry indeed for him to go away. 
Don’t you think you could manage to keep him on? They say 
there is not a better workman round here for miles.” 

Kneebone hesitated for a while before he answered, “ I’m 
sure the young fellow ought to be much obliged to you, squire.” 

“ Not at all. I do not like to see a decent lad like him un- 
fairly used. I understand there are those who would be only 
too glad to do him an ill turn. And I believe in fair play.” 


CHAPTER V 


rook’s nest 

'‘That’s English, anyway, squire. I should be sorry to do 
Boden an injustice. Of course he is nothing to me, and all I 
want is a good reliable workman. What is this story I hear 
about his father having to fly the country ? ” inquired Knee- 
bone, resting his knife and fork upon the plate and looking 
hard at the squire. 

“ It is an old tale, and was a very sad piece of business. I 
have always regretted that Abel Boden didn’t come back and 
give us his version of the story. I’ll never believe that he de- 
liberately tried to injure his brother. The miller says that he 
flung him over the cliff. Perhaps he did; I have no evidence 
to the contrary, and the miller was certainly badly bruised. 
But the question in my mind is, Was it not done in self- 
defence ? ” 

“ There were no witnesses, then ? ” 

“Yes, Nathan Wass, the broom-maker — I don’t know whether 
you have met him ? ” 

“Yes, I have seen him, I believe.” 

“An odd man, rather lonely in his ways; was meant for a 
hermit, I fancy, only hermits are out of date. But he is a 
thoroughly veracious man, and he said at the time that he saw 
the struggle from the wood. He was not prepared to swear 
who began the conflict, but he hinted pretty clearly that it was 
not our shepherd. You must understand Abel was my head 
shepherd.” 

“Oh, indeed! Then you knew him, did you?” 

“Better than I knew my own brother.” 

“He was about my age, wasn’t he? — I mean, he would be 
about my age now.” 

The squire bestowed a critical glance upon Kneebone’s face 
and replied, “Hardly. I should judge you are not far from 
sixty, while Abel would not have been more than fifty-one or 
two at the outside. We were both much of an age, and as lads 
were together a good deal. He taught me how to throw a line, 
set a wire, lime a twig, find a nest, catch a squirrel, and lots of 


rook’s nest 


45 


other things. His woodcraft was first-rate. It was from him 
that young Abel inherited his taste for natural history. I wish 
he would give up smithery and turn gamekeeper, then I could 
look after him better.” 

“ Rather fiery in his temper, though, was the shepherd, 
wasn’t he?” said Kneebone, who seemed almost eager to learn 
all he could about the long-missing man. 

“Fiery! As mild as his own sheep. Like his son, he was 
of a singularly gentle disposition — pensive rather than melan- 
choly. If he got roused, somebody would catch it; but it took 
a great deal to rouse him. How the miller can continue to 
cherish a grudge against his brother’s son, I do not under- 
stand.” 

“ I am afraid he doesn’t waste much affection on him.” 

“There is one thing to be said: the miller has never been 
like the same man since the day his brother disappeared. He 
has a dark spirit now, morose and surly. Once he was sound 
in politics and religion, but of late years — but there, I forget 
you are a stranger. I am glad to know you, Mr. Kneebone, 
and though I haven’t your promise, I feel sure you will not 
work against Boden, whatever you may decide to do.” 

The squire had risen, and Kneebone did likewise. The 
latter stood stroking his beard in silence for some moments. 
At last he said : 

“Squire, they will say I’ve done it to please you. I don’t 
care a red cent what they say, for the matter of that, but I don’t 
wish folk to think meanly of me, at the start, if I can help 
it.” 

“I understand you perfectly,” said the squire, with a quick 
flush and frown. “We are fallen upon evil times: people still 
believe in their idols, but they are ashamed of their honest 
belief being known. So they mock in the market-place what 
they worship in the wood. It is a note of progress, I suppose, 
and of course you believe in progress, Mr. Kneebone?” 

“Down hill? Oh, yes, sir. I’m bound to. I see it going 
on all round me. But what I was going to say is this: if I 
keep on young Boden, I don’t want you to think, squire, that 
I have done it just because you asked me. You will excuse 
me, sir, I know, but I mean that if the tables had been turned, 
and you had been trying to do the mean thing by the young 
fellow and the miller the fair thing, I should have sided with 
the miller, sir, if you had been the Duke of Peakshire him- 
self.” . ... 

“I believe you, Mr. Kneebone,” laughed the squire, for his 
Grace is not a formidable man at all. And as far as that goes, 


4 6 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


my forefathers were Esquires of Voe when his were simple 
wool-merchants with a growing trade.” 

Fine and beautiful was the subtile change of inflection that 
occurred during this statement of a simple fact of comparative 
history. It is not every day that one hears the genuine accent 
of a more than ducal pride, and he is a man of a million who 
can pit himself with delicate scorn against a live duke and 
live. An odd world, my masters! Full of little creatures 
whose breath is in their nostrils, and who dream dreams that 
would put a modest seraph to the blush. The squire had hold 
of the handle of the door, when Kneebone said : 

“One moment, squire, if you please. I understand that you 
would have liked that bit of land down by the Scarthin?” 

“ Well, yes,” said the squire, coming forward, “ I should have 
liked it very much, but I wasn’t prepared to cover it with gold. 
I would give double its market value any day for it.” 

“ That’s about what I gave for it— not that I wanted the 
land, only it went with the house and shop, and I meant to 
have them at any price.” 

“Do you mean you will sell it?” asked the squire, eagerly. 
The ambition of a century seemed about to be realized. 

“ I thought at one time of letting the miller have it, but not 
now, not for a thousand pounds. You may have it, squire, 
and welcome. I like a man that believes in fair play.” 

Out went the squire’s hand, and, meeting the blacksmith’s, 
a hearty shake followed. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Kneebone, thank you very much indeed. 
You have done me a very great favor. I like your disposition 
more than I can say, and I am right glad to have you settle 
among us. Mr. Sims shall call and settle about the transfer 
and what-not. Put your own price on the land, and you will 
find that the Saxtons have long memories, and are never un- 
grateful.” Having so said, the squire left Kneebone alone. 

“I believe it, though he did stammer over it. The Saxtons 
have long memories, and are never ungrateful. Ah, well, they 
don’t raise ‘Esquires of Voe’ in any country except Old Eng- 
land, and if they are dying out here, it’s a darned shame, as 
Cousin Jonathan would say,” soliloquized Kneebone, getting 
his pipe and ringing for the table to be cleared. 

The Jack Wragg place stood in about the middle of the vil- 
lage, on pretty high ground, with a glorious outlook. But 
blacksmiths in general, having something else to think about, 
would not give an odd sixpence a year for the most glorious 
outlook in creation. There are exceptions of course: Jack 
Wragg when in the flesh — and the spirit — would stand and look 


I 


rook’s nest 


47 


at the magnificent expanse of hill and dale, wood and meadow, 
river and sky, and the slopes of the climbing uplands, for a 
whole minute together; and lifting his bare brawny arms would 
remark to himself, if no one else was within speaking distance, 
“Blest if there’s a prettier picter outside o’ heaven!” For 
which oft-repeated sentiment he was labelled “ Heavenly 
Jack.” 

The cottage was built of stone, with a thatched roof and 
overhanging eaves; in front there were two lancet-windows 
downstairs, and two semicircular ones upstairs, which gave 
a distinct character to the place. It was approached by ten or 
a dozen steps, was surrounded by a garden that might well have 
been a section of the original Eden; the whole being ringed in 
with a thick neatly trimmed thorn-hedge. A stream ran 
through the garden, and on one side of the house was a noble 
elm-tree. The smithy was on a line with the road lower down 
the hill, adjoining the garden. It was completely sheltered 
by another elm of great age and size and vigor. Exceeding 
pleasant to the eye was the sight of this ringing hive of indus- 
try, at the foot of the old tree with its lofty and wide-reaching 
branches. There was something idyllic in smithy and cottage 
embedded in a superb landscape. One called to mind the 
words of Evelyn: “Here my cousin William Clanville’s eldest 
son showed me such a lock for a door, that for its filing and 
rare contrivances was a masterpiece, yet made by a country 
blacksmith. But we have seen watches made by another with 
as much curiosity as the best of that profession can brag of ; 
and, not many years after (1654), there was nothing more fre- 
quent than all sorts of iron-work more exquisitely wrought and 
polished than in any part of Europe, so as a door-lock of a tol- 
erable price was esteemed a curiosity even among foreign 
princes.” And remembering that hammer and anvil had been 
the instruments of a fine and beautiful art, one was tempted to 
envy the lot of the blacksmith of Voe. 

In the course of a few days there came from the great city, 
seventy miles away, a band of workmen, including masons, 
bricklayers, carpenters, painters, and plumbers. They were 
put up at the Nag’s Head, and the next morning, headed by 
Kneebone and the gaffer, marched up to the cottage, followed 
by a wondering troop of Voese — men, women, and children. 
The spectators, however, were not allowed into the garden, and 
had to content themselves with standing at the gate, watching 
the movements of the workmen in front of the cottage, and 
exchanging ideas on the subject of Christopher Kneebone’s 
sanity, wisdom, and wealth. As all of these points were open 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


to controversy, and were more or less involved in doubt, the 
sole medium of unanimity lay in a fluctuating and semi-sarcas- 
tic scepticism. The workmen, meanwhile, were busy inspecting 
in their idle-seeming way the quaint little structure they were 
to operate upon. When they first stood in front of it, in a 
group, they looked at each other, and broke out in loud laugh- 
ter. They had thought they were in for a big job at some fine 
house in the country. 

Carpenter. “ I say, Bill, this is a fine mansion, ain’t it? ” 

Plumber. “In the Hitalian style.” 

Mason. “ Th’ picter-gallery’s at the back. Where’s the ball- 
room, Jim ? ” 

Carpenter. “ Never you mind. ’Tain’t open for inspection, 
only on visiting days.” 

Mason. “ Dunna you see it’s part of a old habbey ? Look at 
th’ winders.” 

Plumber. “ How many on us will it hold at once, Jim?” 

Carpe?iter. “Two on us wi’ our coats off — one upstairs and 
as many down.” 

Plumber. “We’ll form a percession, and go in one at a time, 
eh ? ” 

Mason. “We mun go out by th’ back door, or we’ll get 
wedged agen one another.” 

Plumber. “ Let’s lift it on to a barrow, and wheel it back to 
town, and show it off for a penny a head as a big bee-hive.” 

Carpenter. “An owl’s nest, Bill, ’ud do better than a bee- 
hive, with you inside for th’ howl. The boys ’ud never find 
out the trick.” 

In this wise they shot their pellets of good-natured contempt 
at the little brown-faced architectural dwarf, who bore it all 
silently, gravely; while its two semicircular eyes, gleaming 
with sunlight, shone brilliantly, wisely, serenely, from under 
its overhanging brow. It did not strive with its dumbness, 
nor desire to lift up its voice and cry aloud. Its thoughts 
were centuries old; and long contact with humanity had trans- 
formed it into a thing half human, and touched with gentle 
pity for the infirmities of the race. There be many of these 
dumb sympathists in the world, though we make small account 
of them. 

After all, there was not much to be done at the Rook’s Nest, 
as Kneebone christened his cottage. The painting and paper- 
ing and whitewashing throughout was a light job, although it 
had to be done very thoroughly, and with no little taste. As 
the workmen came to understand the quality of work that was 
required of them, they were more contented. Somehow the 


rook’s nest 


49 


wee place caught them with a guile all its own, and changed 
the group of scoffers into warm admirers. Modistes divide 
women into two classes — those who set off their dresses and 
those who do not. They adore the first and despise the sec- 
ond. House- decorators will tell you that as it is with women 
so is it with houses: some will respond to every touch of the 
brush, and yield beautiful effects that strangely outrun the con- 
scious effort of the workman. It is as if they had a subtile 
spirit within them that was only too glad to seize the oppor- 
tunity of working unobserved, and of hiding its magic under 
the formal labor of a mechanic. While other houses, on the 
contrary, seem to be organically graceless and stubborn, work 
against the workman, and defy his best efforts to conceal their 
constitutional sluttishness. 

Rook’s Nest was a little thoroughbred, instinct with the 
spirit and the love of loveliness, and wore its new favors as 
sweetly and bravely as any house of high degree. The work- 
men — shrewd readers of architectural character — quickly dis- 
cerned the quality of its temper: its soul was clean, docile, 
and apt; nothing was lost or thrown away upon it; it lent it- 
self with mysterious facility to their best work, which seemed 
to mellow from day to day into something better than their 
best. They grew to respect the little place, to love it, to be 
proud of it. They put their soul into their work, to the huge 
astonishment of their gaffer and — themselves. It was the only 
use they had made of their soul for many a day; and selves 
and gaffer were no little taken aback to find how# touch of soul 
enhanced the market value of their work. It was like finding 
nuggets of gold in one’s own garden. But they had small faith 
in their soul. They looked at their first bit of really human 
work, and doubted if they could keep it up, even if it fetched 
in the open market half-a-crown a day extra. 

At the back of the house they built a small room, which 
Kneebone was having fitted up with bookcases let into the wall ; 
above this was another room finished as a bath-room. When it 
got wind that Kneebone was a reading man and was building a 
library, the astonishment was universal and profound; but when 
it leaked out, a few days later, that a bath-room was also in the 
course of construction, wonder gave place to anger, ridicule, 
and contempt. Fancy Jack Wragg bemeaning himself to use a 
bath-room ! 

“ Them o’er-clean folk be mostly knaves. The cleaner the 
outside "the dirtier the inside. A bit o’ honest dirt was aye a 
token o’ piety among my forbears and all good Christians,” 

4 


5 ° 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


were among the authentic apophthegms of the lamented Jack 
Wragg, and were sympathetically understood of the people. 

That the squire and his lady should find a bath-room useful, 
was not to be wondered at or cavilled at; it was their nature, 
and went with the hall, and the crest, and the roan mare, and 
other notes of squiralty. In Christopher Kneebone, the for- 
eigner, however, it was a very different matter, being nothing 
more or less than a reflection upon the ancient manners and 
customs of the Voese. A fine blacksmith he was, to be aping 
the ways of the gentry! Was he in reality a blacksmith? 

A beautiful bone of suspicion to pick was this. It gave rise 
to a warm discussion that waxed into a fierce controversy. 
Oddly enough, the dispute narrowed itself down to the condition 
of Kneebone’s hands; some said they were the hands of no 
smith, being white and soft; others as stoutly maintained that 
they were neither white nor soft. As it happened, Kneebone’s 
hands had undergone a remarkable change during his ten days’ 
absence after the sale. Miller Boden would hardly have recog- 
nized them; they had lost their idle look altogether, and bore 
the marks of genuine labor. It was a small point, but it carried 
the day in Kneebone’s favor; the more so that it was generally 
felt that they had done him in thought a great injustice. 

The controversy was cresting itself, just when it became 
known that Abel Boden was going to stay on at the forge. It 
was a very opportune piece of news, and weighed well for 
Kneebone in the scales of popular favor. It was generally 
spoken of as a backhander for the miller, and there was a wide- 
spread curiosity to know how he took it. Am Ende, the 
miller’s parasite and mouthpiece, was attacked in the oblique 
native manner by half the village, but every effort to extract 
the desired information from him was unavailing. He swore, 
laughed, frowned, snapped his fingers and slapped his thighs, 
drank all the bribing glasses of beer to which he was treated, 
but to pump him exceeded native wit. 

This reticence, in one who was loquacity incarnate, deceived 
many but not all. The Witan of the place shook their white 
heads gravely, and declared that the miller was “feeling badly 
bit.” In his fury he was like unto a bull of Bashan, and he 
could nurse his fire like a smoking mountain. Sooner or later 
he would be even with the book-reading, bath-loving foreigner, 
as sure as wheat was wheat. 

A rumor of all this came to the ears of Christopher Kneebone, 
but he only laughed and said, “ Let the miller run the mill, 
and the smith the smithy. This is a free country, and if I like 


rook’s nest 


51 


I’ll take on Old Harry himself, and teach him to shoe horses 
let who will say nay.” 

This was brave speech, better even than anything reported of 
self-sufficient Jack Wragg. Voe heard it, and first looking 
round to see that neither Miller Boden nor Am Ende was in 
sight, laughed silently and approvingly from ear to ear. 

A fortnight passed away, and with it the wild heart of March. 
The snow had gone altogether, save for the ridges under the 
upland walls, and the mounds in the hollows in the woods. It 
was wonderful how green and fresh the earth looked, now that 
its face was once more visible. It was a fine frosty noon when 
Christopher Kneebone came down from the cottage, where he 
had been watching the men at work, and set off for Yewdle 
Brig. He wanted to order a pair of big bellows for the smithy, 
the old ones having shown signs of impending dissolution. 
They had been put f up in the time of Jack Wragg’s father, get- 
ting on for fifty years ago, and had been mended so often that 
very little of their original composition remained. If Jack 
Wragg had not been in heaven, the old bellows would have 
been botched again; for the idea of getting new bellows was 
as foreign to him as that of getting new biceps. The new man 
brings the new world: Kneebone would have thought that six- 
pence laid out on the patched and odd-looking monster was so 
much money thrown away. 

Kneebone did his business, and was on the point of starting 
homeward, when it began to snow heavily. The sun went 
down in a clear sky, however, scattering its red arrows among 
the snowflakes with miraculous chromatic effect. Kneebone, 
thinking that the storm was nothing but a bit of wanton frolic 
on the part of an isolated and irresponsible cloud, turned into 
the “ Pig of Lead ” and ordered a tea of ham and eggs. Still 
the snow came down thicker than ever, and the fiery west had 
hooded its splendor in gray and ghostly gloom. Kneebone left 
Yewdle Brig inter ca,7iem et lupum. It was a mile nearer across 
the fields, but he decided that it was wiser to keep the road. 
The twilight died away almost suddenly; according to the 
almanac there was a well-filled moon in the sky, and doubtless 
the almanac was correct, though not a ray of lunar light worked 
its way through the vast awning of cloud that seemed to be fast 
to the tops of the hills. Half-way home it ceased snowing, 
the wind fell, there was a strange calm, a weird silence, and 
darkness sevenfold thick was on the ground and in the air. 

Christopher Kneebone was not a nervous man, nor supersti- 
tious, but as he stood on the top of the long hill leading down 


52 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


to Voe, and listened, hearing no sound of living thing, only 
the low breathings of the solitary hills hidden in the darkness, 
and unearthly “ sounds of undistinguishable motion,” suggestive 
of the non-human spirits of air and woods and mountains — his 
sense of awe deepened into spiritual terror. Well as he knew 
nature and her myriad moods and innumerable costumes, never 
before had he seen her in such sable attire, in such attitude of 
mystery; motionless, silent, dumb, as though smitten dead 
with a sudden great vision of God. Kneebone drew a long 
breath that sounded like a deep sigh, and began to drop down 
the hill. It was so dark that he could barely make out the 
road. He was nearing Voe, and had reached the curve in the 
road some little distance above the mill, when he drew up sud- 
denly, as a colossal black figure seemed to rise out of the earth 
and bar his way. 


CHAPTER VI 


POWERS OF DARKNESS 

“ Halloa there ! who are you ? — a man or an elephant ? ” cried 
Kneebone. 

“All right, stranger. It’s as dark as a bag. How far to 
Yewdle Brig?” said a gruff voice. 

“A good six mile, friend. Nasty night for walking.” 

“ Been on the tramp all day, stranger. Happen ye have a 
copper to spare for a night’s lodging?” 

“Sorry to say I haven’t got a copper on me. If I had, you 
should have it and welcome,” answered Kneebone, moving 
aside. 

“ Got any siller on thee?” 

“ Silver do you mean ? ” 

“ Ei mon, siller or gowd ’ull do,” said the black monster, 
contemptuously. 

“Well, yes, I’ve got just as much silver and gold about me as 
I — mean to keep,” replied Kneebone, in a significant tone. He 
had never seen the man he was afraid of, and the fellow’s tone 
was insolent. 

As he spoke, Kneebone’s hand glided to his hip pocket, which 
contained his purse and a small silver-hilted six-shooter, once 
the property of a former friend of his. Said friend distinguished 
himself in England by studying medicine, shooting without a 
license other people’s game, and slaughtering for his own 
amusement certain of my Lord Muchland’s beautiful red-deer; 
then, following the star of empire, he moved quickly west, and 
from a cow-boy graduated with honors as a cattle-lifter and 
horse-stealer, and finally, on the Mexican border, flourished as 
a brigand chief. Dead now? Oh, no! such gentry are in no 
hurry to die. Within a day’s ride of Granada is a delightfully 
situated monastery that looks a worthy home of clean-lived 
saints. Before a golden shrine, arrayed in gorgeous vestments, 
is a stalwart priest, with a tan upon his face that no asceticism 
can bleach. It is the brigand chief turned monk! That man’s 
“Life” would knock the best romance out of the market, and 
here you have it, dear reader, in a nut-shell. 


54 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


To return to our lamb cutlets: Kneebone’s hand was on the 
revolver that had once belonged to the heavenly-minded monk. 
The unknown laughed at Kneebone’s words and said: 

“All right, stranger. It’s too dark to quarrel, or I’d put 
some steel into you. Goodnight.” He moved on up the road, 
and in a dozen steps all trace of him was lost in the darkness. 

Kneebone continued his journey, but had not proceeded more 
than a hundred yards when he heard the unknown calling out, 
“Say, stranger, have you got a match on you?” He felt in- 
clined to push on and pay no heed to the request, but second 
thoughts, kindlier if not wiser, prevailed, and he called out, 
“Yes, I’ve got a match on me. Where are you?” 

“Blest if I can make out where you be,” answered the un- 
known, whose voice sounded close at hand. 

Kneebone turned to meet him, and as he did so, out from the 
wooded hillside sprang two black figures, and rushed upon him. 
It was evidently an ambush, and, remembering the sinister 
words about steel, Kneebone thought his life was in danger. 

He sent out a great cry of “Help! help! murd ” He fell 

on one knee, half stunned by a murderous blow from a thick 
stick. Before he could rally himself, the three men were upon 
him. They seized him violently, and seemed to be pulling 
him in all directions. For some moments he was too dazed 
to offer any resistance, and was only conscious of wondering to 
himself whether they would know where to strike to kill him 
with one blow of the dagger. But instead of stabbing and rob- 
bing him, they began to thrash him mercilessly with sticks, at 
the same time showering fierce oaths upon him — which, how- 
ever, broke no bones — and abusing him for a foreign prig and 
damned Yankee swell, who was meddling with matters that did 
not belong to him. They were giving him a taste, a plum of 
the pudding to which he would be treated liberally in the 
future, if he did not get out of Voe bag and baggage. 

This put a new light upon the matter. Kneebone’s giddiness 
vanished; his faculties were in perfect order, and his blood was 
up. He was not going to be rattened into a jelly, if he knew 
it. With a sudden desperate effort, he planted his foot like a 
battering-ram on one fellow’s stomach, and sent him flying 
backward. Of course, a soft guardian angel in the form of a 
grassy bank must be in the right spot to receive the flabber- 
gasted villain, and prevent him from splitting his dear skull 
upon the hard road. With the delivery of his stroke, Knee- 
bone sprang to his feet, the other two hanging on like bull-dogs. 
He sent out another loud cry for help, as he felt that they were 
trying to throttle him. The spirit of murder was awake now in 


POWERS OF DARKNESS. 


55 


the hearts of his assailants. Kneebone felt it distinctly in 
the devilish clutch of their brawny hands. A shiver ran through 
him as the flabbergasted villain on the bank, recovering himself, 
sprang forward and muttered to his mates, “ Hold him tight, 
and I’ll finish him wi’ my knife.” “Mind yo’ hit the right 
’un,” one of the couple gasped breathlessly, as they rolled 
about the road in a life-and-death struggle. 

Kneebone’s strength began to fail him; his head swam, and 
though he was fighting as men only do when they know it is 
for dear life, a fatal dizziness was creeping over him. Sud- 
denly he became aware that a fifth figure had intertwined itself 
in that fierce serpentine coil of humanity, though his assailants 
did not yet realize it. Undetected in the darkness by the 
others, Kneebone felt its touch half-a-dozen times on various 
parts of his body, and each time a strange thrill went through 
him. Once its hand was upon his face, over which it moved 
quickly without attempting to close. It did not once speak, 
nor could he hear it breathe, though the others were panting 
loudly. Was it friend or foe? Was it man or angel? Knee- 
bone trembled, but his strength grew. Whole stores of strength 
were unlocked, so that for a moment he fought himself free. 

In that moment the figure was by his side, and whispered, 
“ Who are you ? ” 

“Christopher Kneebone.” 

“Ah! ” Then in a loud voice he cried, as the villains closed 
upon him, mistaking him for Kneebone, “ You knaves, I know 
you! ” 

As though they had suddenly been confronted by a row of 
fixed bayonets, the rogues fell back bewildered. 

“Look out, Tim; it’s the devil himself!” muttered one of 
them, in an unmistakable tone of horror. Then they turned 
and fled, two toward Yewdle Brig and one toward Voe. 

Leaning with his hand heavily upon Abel Boden’s shoulder, 
Christopher Kneebone drew his revolver and fired down the 
road at a venture. The bullet found its billet. A dreadful 
shriek rent the air. But the next moment the footsteps of the 
flying villain were distinctly audible, a pretty sure proof that 
he was more frightened than hurt. 

“ If I had only been as smart as the man to whom this shooter 
once belonged, one or two of those villains would l^ave played 
an important part at a funeral, lam thinking,” remarked Knee- 
bone, as he put the weapon back into his pocket. 

“ It is better as it is. It’s a terrible thing to take a man’s 
life, even in self-defence. Are you hurt much?” inquired 
Abel. 


56 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“I’m a bit bruised maybe, but no bones broken, thank 
heaven! My lad, you’ve saved my life this time; they meant 
murder, if ever men did. I’ll bear it in mind, lad, that I owe 
you my life.” 

“I’m downright glad I happened to hear you call out, Mr. 
Kneebone. I was down by the mill, and I thought I heard 
some one shout ‘Help!’ I started up the hill and listened, but 
could hear nothing. It was so dark I could make nothing out. 
I stood for a while, and was just thinking of going back when 
I heard you call out again. Were they footpads, do you think ? ” 

“No, lad, they were none footpads. They were ratteners. 
They let the cat out of the bag when they began thrashing 
me.” 

“But they weren’t Voe men — two of ’em, at any rate,” ob- 
jected Abel. 

“How do you know that?” asked Kneebone. 

“I felt their faces and hands.” 

“ So did I, for the matter of that; fingers aren’t eyes, though, 
lad,” laughed Kneebone. 

“They will tell as much as eyes, though, any day; at least 
mine will. Two of them were foreigners, as we say round 
here. I am not sure of the one that went down-hill. I fancy 
I know his face well enough.” 

“Who do you think it was? Let me know, lad, and I’ll 
teach somebody a lesson they won’t forget in a day.” 

The two men had reached the point where the lane from the 
mill joined the road. Said Abel, “It was just here where I 
.first heard you call out. I was ” 

“Hallo! what’s that?” cried Kneebone, as a small stone 
fell in front of them. At the same moment there was a slight 
movement in the plantation on the other side of the wall. 

“Oh, nothing of any account,” answered Abel, as he stooped 
and, picking up a pebble, jerked it lightly into the wood. 

The two went forward a few yards, and then Kneebone said 
abruptly, “Who is she?” 

“Who is who?” inquired Abel in a tone of surprise. 

“The lady in the wood, your lady-love, I suppose.” 

“I don’t quite catch your meaning, Mr. Kneebone.” 

“ You don’t mean to say it is your cousin, Miss Ruth Boden ? ” 
said Kneebone, halting and laying his hand on Abel’s arm. 

“ I didn’t know I had said it was any one, Mr. Kneebone. 
If the miller heard my name connected with that of his daugh- 
ter there would be trouble, I’m afraid — especially now, since 
things have taken the turn they have, sir.” 

“Well, well! it has taken me by surprise, I’ll admit.” 


POWERS OF DARKNESS 


57 


“But I have admitted nothing, Mr. Kneebone, ” put in Abel, 
a little defiantly. 

“Certainly not. And you will be Look here, lad! 

you have saved my life this night, and I shan’t forget it, you 
may depend. We must be friends, close and true friends — eh, 
Abel? I may call you Abel, as though you were my own son, 
mayn’t I?” 

What was it that sent a sudden rush of emotion over Abel, 
bringing him in an instant nearer to tears than he had ever 
been before, except when thinking of his father in some of his 
pensive moods? Perhaps it was the subtile ring of sympathy 
in Kneebone’s voice and words. 

“ I have no father, as you know, Mr. Kneebone. And I am 
thinking none can ever fill his vacant place. But — yes, call 
me Abel; and we will be true friends. I’m shy at making 
friends, but — I like you. I can trust you. You shall be my 
friend,” said the young man; and their hands met in the pact 
of friendship. 

“ Friends through thick and thin, Abel! On the subject of 
your lassie, I’m dumb from this moment. Some day, when we 
know each other better, you will tell me all about it. Now, 
to go back to what we were talking about, who was the ruffian 
you recognized ? ” 

“I think I’d rather not tell you just yet, unless you wish it 
very much. You see, I’m not sure, and it might make trouble,” 
replied Abel, in a hesitating manner. 

“ No, it shall make no trouble till we are quite sure of our 
man. Do you think your uncle had a hand in it, Abel ?” 

“Why do you ask?” inquired Abel, quickly. 

“I don’t know, I’m sure, unless it is that I know he is sore 
because I have kept you on. Strange, isn’t it, how he hates 
you ? ” 

“Yes; and cruel as strange. I’ve given him no reason to, 
that I know of.” 

“You are the son of your father. I suppose he thinks that 
is reason enough. You remember your father, don’t you?” 
said Kneebone, in a low voice. 

“ Yes, in a confused sort of way. I’ve only one clear memory 
of him. I remember him lifting me up on to his shoulder — he 
was standing on the edge of the quarry on the moor — and I 
recollect feeling afraid as I looked down. It seemed an awful 
distance to the bottom. I believe I never saw him again after 
that.” 

“ Was that the day of the quarrel ? ” 

“Yes; so I am told. I was scarcely five at the time.” 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


58 

“And you have never heard of him since ?” 

“Never. I don’t know whether he is living or dead.” 

“I guess you would like to hear, though?” 

“Like to! I’m not much of a praying man, and maybe I 
don’t bend my knees as oft as would be good for me; but 
bending or standing, I judge, is much one to our Maker. And 
God knows that, for the last fifteen years or more not a night 
has gone but I’ve prayed that the morrow might bring tidings 
of my father. I’ve about lost hope now,” said Abel, in a thick 
voice. 

“ Nay, lad, keep a stout heart and hope on. I’m not much of 
a prophet, and don’t much believe in prophesying unless I know ; 
but somehow I feel sure you’ll get tidings of him some day. 
You may bet on it, lad, he hasn’t forgotten you. You see, if 
he had sent word to you for a time, and then have dropped it, 
there would be some ground for thinking he was dead. But 
unbroken silence, I take it, means that he is still alive and 
well, and biding his time to turn up. Anyhow, it’s a comfort- 
ing theory, and I’d advise you to hang on to it for some time 
longer. Never be in a hurry, lad, to believe that Hope is 
dead. You might as well fret for your own funeral. Will 
you come in a bit ? ” 

They had reached the Nag’s Head by this time, where 
Kneebone was putting up. 

“ Not to-night, thank you. How do you feel now?” 

“A bit shaken, lad, but nothing serious. A good night’s rest 
will put me all right, you’ll see. You didn’t answer my ques- 
tion about the miller? ” 

“I’d rather not, to-night,” answered Abel. 

“All right; but I’ll keep my eye open in future. I’ll let 
him know to-morrow that I’ve promised the land along the 
river-side to the squire, and see how he likes that. Good- 
night! ” 

“Good-night!” answered Abel; and turning away he re- 
traced his steps to the foot of the lane leading to the mill. 
He stood against the wall bounding the plantation for some 
little time, seemingly occupied with his thoughts; then he put 
his hand to his mouth and sent out a weird hoolie-gool-oo-oo that 
smote with terror every fieldmouce that heard it, and was 
enough to haunt with fearful dreams the last spell of a frog’s 
long sleep. The echo of the brown owl’s cry was still in the 
air when the wail of a plover came from the plantation, which 
was answered by Abel with the low boom of a snipe. Then he 
vaulted the wall, and diving into the plantation like one who 
knew every inch of the ground, he climbed the hill and came to 


POWERS OF DARKNESS 


59 


a ring of firs about a stone’s throw from the rickyard at the 
mill. 

On a jutting rock in the middle of the open space sat Ruth. 
She had an amber necklace in her hands, and amusing herself 
with fingering it, seemed to be telling her beads. The wind 
had risen, and the torn clouds were moving away in two layers 
— the upper layer slowly and sullenly and the lower swiftly, in 
many a fantastic vaporous form. 

As Abel entered the circle, the moon sailed out of the scowl- 
ing darkness and threw its clear, pale light upon the girl, who 
rose to greet her lover. 

“Why didn’t you wait for me below?’’ said Abel, as he 
stood in front of her, holding both her hands. 

“ It was very foolish of me, I know, but — well, I think I was 
a bit nervous,” answered Ruth, in an apologetic tone. 

“That is something new, sweetheart, isn’t it? What made 
you nervous ? ” 

“ Oh, never mind it now. You would only laugh at me if I 
told you. Tell me where you have been and what has hap- 
pened.” 

“Not till you have told me what frightened you,” persisted 
Abel. 

The girl hesitated awhile, and then she said, “While I was 
waiting for you to come back, a man came running down the 
road, and turning up the lane he jumped over the wall into the 
plantation, and crouched down as if to hide himself. There 
were only a few bushes between him and me.” 

“ Did he see you ?” 

“No; I kept perfectly still, wondering what on earth it 
meant. He did not stir from the place until you went by with 
— Mr. Kneebone, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes. What then?” 

“ After you had turned the corner to cross the bridge he got 
up and went into the road, and — and — stood and — shook his 
fist at you,” said Ruth, nervously. 

But Abel only laughed low, and said, “You kitten! I’m 
afraid of no man’s fist.” 

“Oh, but dearest, you should have heard him! He cursed 
you horribly, and swore he would have his revenge if he swung 
for it. I thought I should have fainted with terror.” 

“Poor child! If I’d only known, I would soon have been 
with you. Try and forget all about it,” said Abel, with great 
tenderness, as he drew the trembling girl close to him. 

“He will harm you, my love. He swore he would. What 
have you done to him, Abel ? ” 


6o 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“I don’t know that I have done anything, unless Do 

you know who it was, Ruth?” 

“ Don’t you know, Abel ? ” 

“ Not for certain, but I can give a pretty good guess. Was 
it Am Ende?” 

“Yes, it was Am Ende. He is a dangerous man to have for 
an enemy. What have you done to anger him, dearest?” 

“ Well, I haven’t done very much as yet — unless it was to 
prevent him from having a hand in a cowardly murder. I 
found him and a couple of unknown villains doing their best 
to kill poor Kneebone. If I hadn’t turned up when I did, I 
make no doubt they would soon have throttled him.” 

High-spirited and full of mettle, there was no braver girl for 
miles round than Ruth of Voe; but Abel felt her tremble as 
she spoke. She saw no more perhaps than he did, but infinitely 
clearer. Her imagination was more nimble and realistic, and 
future events that were for him a blurred mass had features cut 
like cameos for her. 

“ O Abel, my laddie, it bodes no good, I am thinking, for 
us! But we will be true to each other, won’t we?” she mur- 
mured, with a ring in her voice that sent a thrill through her 
lover. 

“ Trust me, darling! I have nothing else to live for — now — 
but your love.” 

“Nay, nay! don’t say that, my love! I know what you are 
thinking; but you are wrong. He will come back one of these 
days, and then — then I shall grow jealous of him, father or no 
father.” 

“O Ruth, Ruth! but for you I should have gone mad, I 
think. And sometimes even now I feel as if my heart would 

break when I ” He paused, and struggled painfully to 

overcome his emotion; but the effort was useless. And as his 
feelings swept over him in an irresistible flood, he raised his 
hands to heaven and sobbed out piteously, “O God, God — 
Father and Mother God ! give me back my father ! ” His hands 
fell; his uplifted face, full of sad and melancholy beauty in the 
brilliant moonlight, drooped earthward; while a sound, half 
groan and half wail, fell from his lips. 

Gently did Ruth draw him to the cropping rock ; and thereon 
seated she took his head upon her bosom, and stroking his face 
softly, crooned over him as a mother over her troubled child. 
After awhile Abel sat up, and shaking himself said, “I am 
ashamed of myself, Ruth, for letting my feelings get the better 
of me like that. It is bad enough when I’m alone, but before 
you ” 


POWERS OR DARKNESS 


6l 


Ruth put her hand to his mouth and stopped him, saying, 
“Before me? Am I not your own? Your grief is my grief, 
and your hope is my hope. You must let me share all your 
trouble, Abel, if I am to share your joy.” 

“Ah, lassie, “ murmured Abel, as he drew her close and 
kissed her, “ you are well named. You take after the sweet 
woman of old. Think you, was it some one who loved her — a 
lover or a husband — that wrote the story in the Bible?” 

“I never thought of it in that way,” answered Ruth, with a 
soft, love-filled laugh of gladness', “but perhaps it was. It 
was just like a noble husband to go and do a thing like that. 
Only in that case I’m afraid he flattered her a bit.” 

“ Happen he did. It’s no new taste in women to like sweet 
things, and no great harm, as I know of, to humor them a bit. 
See this,” said Abel abruptly, pulling out of his pocket a big 
brass button of a peculiar pattern. 

Ruth examined it carefully and said, “ I know who wears 
buttons like this.” 

“Are you sure?” inquired Abel, seriously. 

“Yes. Am Ende does.” 


CHAPTER VII 


IL PENSEROSO 

“ I guessed as much. If I let Kneebone know there will be 
trouble, Ruth. It’s a bad piece of business altogether.” 

“You don’t think father had anything to do with it, do 
you ? ” asked Ruth, in a startled tone. 

“I’m afraid he had. And what’s worse, Kneebone suspects 
him.” 

“ But why ? Why should he suspect father of doing a terrible 
thing like that ? ” 

“ He puts it down to the miller’s rage at him keeping me on.” 

“ Yes, father is very crossed about it, I know. I never saw 
him like he has been the last few weeks. But he wouldn’t do 
anything wicked like that; I am sure he wouldn’t, Abel,” 
pleaded Ruth, with a dim uneasy feeling all the time that she 
was going moral bail for her father to a degree that was only 
justified by her filial relation. 

“I’d rather think with you than not, but the thing has an 
ugly look about it. Am Ende would hardly dare to do it on 
his own account, I’m thinking.” 

“Promise me you won’t tell Mr. Kneebone anything about 
Am Ende! It would kill me, Abel, if father had to go to 
prison.” 

“Nay, don’t you go and frighten yourself on that score! 
The miller is no fool, Ruth. He will take care of his own 
skin, you may be sure. If any one suffers it will be Am Ende; 
and your father could easily make it right with him.” 

“6 Abel, I don’t like to hear you talk like that. You 
speak as if you were sure of father’s guilt,” said Ruth — a note 
of reproach in her voice. 

“ Whatever I may think, Ruth, be you sure I shall do noth- 
ing to injure your father. He has done all he could to injure 
me, as you know, without cause on my part; and I’m going to 
take my revenge along the old line of doing good for evil. I 
cannot forget two things, my sweetheart: in the first place, he 
is your father; in the second, he is my father’s own brother. 
No, lassie, I can’t even bring myself to hate him, let alone to 
hurt hitp,” 


IL PENSEROSO 


6 3 


A singular moral creature, it must be confessed, was this 
young blacksmith-naturalist. Anything but a conventionally 
religious man, anything but a coward. Brave, indeed, as a 
lion, only in a quieter and more human way — did not roar his 
bravery, like most lions, human and otherwise, but acted it, 
with an instinct worthy of a gentleman. Though he would 
have laughed, in his gentle ironical manner, had any one been 
foolish enough to dub him gentleman. He believed in the 
Church more than in the creed of the Church, and showed his 
respect for the Church by seldom entering it. A bit of a scep- 
tic, too, having caught, as it were, by accident, a passing 
breath of the spirit of the age; but he took the complaint in 
no virulent form, but mildly, not to say reverently. It seemed 
to aromatize his personality with a subtile and sweet odor. In 
a large and vital sense he managed to embody the curious rad- 
ical kinship of skeptikos and episkopos ; terms which — he was only 
a blacksmith, you remember — we dare not English for the life 
of us. A singular moral creature was this moth-hunting black- 
smith, acting like a genuine Christian at times when genuine 
Christianity was in order, and thinking pagan thoughts six 
times out of seven! 

As Abel declared his inability to hate or harm the miller, 
Ruth, being a sweetly impulsive creature, threw her arms about 
her lover’s neck and kissed him. It was a rare human reward 
for a rare human virtue. It made it seem worth while to cul- 
tivate unusual virtues, though they are very costly things to 
grow. Ruth was a tall girl. Abel stood over five feet ten 
inches in height, and he had to bend his head but very little to 
receive the reward of virtue. 

“You are a dear good fellow, quite too noble for a common- 
place girl like me. But I will try and become more worthy of 
you,’’ murmured Ruth, her heart full of pride in the moral 
nobility of her lover. 

“ I am no more noble, sweet one, than you are commonplace. 
And as for trying to be better than you are — don’t! A fine 
fruit is content to grow naturally, and mellow with time. You 
will get warped and out of proportion if you take to trying. 
It is the method of inferior natures, Ruth,’’ said Abel, veiling 
a serious belief under a tone of lightness. 

“Do you think I shall ever mellow into a fine woman?” in- 
quired Ruth, almost shyly, yet with a touch of passionate 
earnestness. 

“Do I? Why, sweetheart, you are already a fine woman, 
though a young one. All you have to do is to mellow. God 
grant it may be under 3 clear sky and a kind sun! ” 


6 4 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


Whereat the tears came into the girl’s eyes, and she said 
softly, “ Dearest, you are as the sun you prayed for me. You 
give me hope and strength.” 

Said Abel with a sigh, “ I am very glad if it is so. It’s 
curious, though. I should have thought I was the last fellow 
on earth to give to any one hope and strength — articles I’m 
mighty short of myself. ” 

They sat for some time in silence, before Ruth said, “ What 
sort of a man is this Mr. Kneebone, Abel ? ” 

“You have seen him, haven’t you?” 

“Yes; I don’t mean in looks, I mean in character. Tell me 
something about him. Is he an interesting man ? ” 

Abel laughed and said, “Well, yes, he interests me. I don’t 
know him very well as yet, but from the little I know I like 
him mightily. I don’t think he is much of a blacksmith, 
though. ” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ He doesn’t know how to handle a hammer yet. He says 
it is because he has been idle so long. But I’m thinking it is 
because he never learnt how. He seems to have knocked 
about the world a good deal. Some day I’m going to try and 
draw him out a bit.” 

“ Is he a very reserved man ? ” 

“Yes; we are much of the same kidney as far as that goes. 
He’s made a pretty place of Rook’s Nest, as he calls it. He 
is going to have quite a library, I believe.” 

“Oh, won’t that be nice! If he has only got some books on 
birds and moths and beetles and wood animals for you to read, 
and perhaps a few novels which you could borrow for me.” 

“ Not much chance of that, I’m thinking. Goodness knows 
what his taste will run to in the reading line! That he should 
care to read at all, is more than most folk can understand,” 
said Abel, with some contempt in his voice. 

He knew only too well himself what it meant for a man to 
have a taste or pursuit that was not shared by, or familiar to, 
the good people of Voe. It meant no little abuse and ridicule, 
or, at the best, a scornful pity that disdained concealment. 

“Do they talk much about him now?” asked Ruth, who knew 
perfectly well that Abel’s sympathy would go with any man 
whose honest eccentricities had brought upon him the sour 
looks of his neighbors. 

“Talk! their tongue’s a razor, and they use him as a strop 
to whet it on. But it’s all behind his back now, mind you. 
He gave them vitriol for their vinegar, and they’re afraid of 
him now.” 


IL PENSEROSO 


65 


“Violet Chalk says he is very rich,” remarked Ruth. 

“I should have thought Violet Chalk was too shrewd a wo- 
man to talk nonsense. I don’t say he isn’t rich. All I say is 
this: he never told anybody he was rich, I am sure of that; it 
isn’t his style at all. And he is the village blacksmith. Put 
the two together, and I say it’s all nonsense to call him a rich 
man. He may be, but nobody knows, and the odds are against 
it.” 

Ruth had no doubt that Mistress Violet Chalk had been 
guilty of talking arrant nonsense, since Abel had said so, and 
said it almost severely. Still, she was kindly disposed* to the 
nonsense — liked it better than the sober sense of her lover. A 
rich blacksmith would have been a novelty, a delicious anom- 
aly, a living romance, she thought. Fond of pungent flavors 
was she, and life was apt to be lacking even in the common 
table-salt of variety. This same sensibility of her moral pal- 
ate was one of the active causes that had led her to fall in love 
with the very man her father most hated. 

“ But he can’t be a very poor man, or he wouldn’t have 
thrown away his money as he did at the sale. I heard father 
say himself that, if he was not a rich man, he was a fool,” she 
said, willing to justify herself in the eyes of her lover. 

“That puts him in an awkward box, I’ll admit. In that 
case, we had better hope that Kneebone is — which is it to be ? 
Rich man or fool ? ” laughed Abel. 

“Oh, rich by all means.” 

“ Then, indeed, is he a fool to carry on a blacksmith’s forge 
in Voe. Poor fellow! the argument seems against him which- 
ever way the wind blows. Yet he is no fool; or if he is, fools 
are scarcer than I had thought.” 

“ Do you think you will get on well together?” asked Ruth. 

“Oh, yes, first-rate. He seems inclined to let me have my 
own way in everything; and I seldom quarrel with a man who 
will do that.” 

“ It is because he knows you are to be trusted, dear. I am 
so sorry that he and father are at cross-purposes. I should so 
like to have known him. I’m sure he is a nice man.” 

Abel made no reply for a while, but stood in an attitude of 
thought, leaning against a tree. The moonlight was on his 
face, and so was Ruth’s glance. It was hardly the face of a 
blacksmith and the son of a shepherd. It was a delicate, 
smooth, dark-skinned Italian face, of an oval cast, with melan- 
choly gray eyes, a finely wrought nose, and a beautiful mouth 
and chin. He had a mustache that a guardsman might have 
envied, for silken texture and wavy length; his head was a 
5 


66 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


mass of rings and wheels of short black-brown hair. If he 
could have kept his hands out of sight, he might have strolled 
along Fitzjohn’s Avenue and been taken for a foreign artist. 
Yet he had not an atom of the artistic faculty in him. He 
looked a thorough Southerner, subtile, sleek, supple, insinuat- 
ing. A guitar seemed to become him infinitely better than a 
smith’s hammer. He was one of Nature’s cunning mockeries 
— one of her finished and heartless ironies. On the face of it, 
there was something akin to stupidity in fashioning such a peg 
for such a hole. And as if to cap the absurdity, and at the 
same time puzzle beholders, Nature had deviated from her fixed 
practice of subordinating the style of character to the physical 
type. For Abel was neither subtile, nor sleek, nor supple, nor 
insinuating. His mental man was thoroughly English, and 
was simple and honest and straightforward enough to have 
found an adequate expression in a moon face, a ruddy complex- 
ion, and mutton-chop whiskers. 

Leaning against a fir, with the moonlight on his poetic face, 
Abel looked the very embodiment of II Penseroso, the Pensive 
Man, lover of Divine Melancholy, gentle-hearted friend of Sor- 
row, sweet-voiced acquaintance of Grief. And, to this extent, 
he was what he looked. To Ruth his face was a grand liv- 
ing picture, rich in strange beauty and romantic suggestion; 
she was never weary of looking at it. Oddly enough, she had 
scarcely ever yet seen it save by moonlight, or starlight, or 
twilight, or by the broken lights of evening. She longed to 
see it in the open daylight, illuminated by the glorious sun; 
but so far, their loves were known only to themselves and 
Ruth’s former nurse, Violet Chalk. And so their meetings 
had been all in secret and under cover of the night. It was 
singular what a strong desire the girl had to see her lover’s 
face by daylight. Yet it was a face that lost rather than gained 
by the light of day; its pensive sadness, its dark, colorless 
beauty, gathered tone and harmony from the dim lights and 
deep shadows of the night. 

Just now Ruth was looking at him, and thinking how much 
she would like to see that noble face and head bathed in a flood 
of brilliant light, that would wash away from her mind all 
sense of dimness and obscurity, and bring her nearer to him than 
she had ever yet been able to get. Now that the days were 
lengthening and summer’s herald was at hand, they would 
surely be able to plan a meeting in the sunlight. She would 
place her lover full in the sunshine, and bid him forget her and 
think about badgers or beetles or what he liked best, and she 
would stand close by and study his countenance, and fill her 


IL PENSEROSO 


67 


soul with images of its unusual beauty, its fascination, its pa- 
thetic melancholy. From this sweet dream she was recalled 
by Abel saying: 

“ Lassie, Mr. Kneebone has made a discovery.” 

“ I hope it is a pleasant one ? ” she answered, in a far-away 
tone. She was disinclined to lose sight of her pleasant dream, 
which already was dissolving like a distant rainbow. 

“I hardly know whether it is or not,” said Abel, in a tone 
that effectually banished from the girl’s mind, in a second, all 
thought of the face in the sunshine. 

“What is it, dear?” she asked anxiously. 

“He has guessed our secret, sweetheart, that is all.” 

“ O Abel, what do you mean ? ” 

“ He has guessed that we love each other. Not a bad guess, 
either, is it? ” 

“ What in the world can we do ? If father should find it out 
now, it would be terrible, Abel. Two months ago it would 
have been different, but now — O Abel ! how did it happen ? ” 

“ Don’t be frightened. Kneebone knows which way the wind 
blows. We’ve pledged our friendship for each other this very 
night — he says I saved his life, and happen I did. He’s the 
sharpest-witted fellow I’ve seen for many a day; once on the 
scent, he went at the game like a shot. I’m not sorry, on the 
whole. If we should need a friend, I’m thinking he would 
stand by us like a man.” 

“There are two know it now. True, I told Violet Chalk 
myself, but isn’t somebody else as likely to guess it as Mr. ” 

“Hush, hush! ” whispered Abel, quickly, taking Ruth’s hand 
and retreating into the deep shadow of the firs. Crouching low 
behind some bushes, they listened — Ruth with a palpitating 
heart. 

A heavy footstep was distinctly audible at a short distance 
from them. It moved forward slowly, its track being marked 
by the sound of crackling leaves and snapping twigs. Peering 
into the darkness, Abel presently made out a sight that startled 
him. It was the figure of a man carrying on his back some- 
thing that looked fearfully like the body of a dead man. 

Instinctively Abel put himself in front of Ruth, while the 
figure moved out of sight. Then he said: “You had better run 
in now, darling.” Silently they kissed each other, and then 
lightly and swiftly as a fawn did Ruth tread her way to the 
rickyard. Something in Abel’s voice had struck terror to her 
heart. 


CHAPTER VIII 


A man’s burden 

The store-room at the mill was a long, narrow apartment on 
the top story, with heavy rafters overhead, and lighted by a 
window at each end; sacks of unground corn stood against the 
walls and covered the floor, leaving only a narrow passage down 
the centre of the room. On a sack, near the window overlook- 
ing the courtyard below, sat Miller Boden on the evening in 
question. It was dusk when he left the house, stick in hand, 
saying: “I am going out for an hour or two, Ruth.” Ruth, 
thought, as the miller wished her to think, that her father had 
gone down to Voe on business. He was often out of the house 
at night — a fact that had proved very favorable, so far, to the 
two lovers. But to-night, as soon as he was out of the yard, 
the miller turned back and entered the mill by a side door that 
had purposely been left unfastened. He left the door loose as 
he found it, and passed up, first a flight of wooden steps which 
led into the grinding-room, and then up a sort of flat-runged 
ladder into the store-room. 

A mysterious time-killer is thought. A thousand years would 
seem as a day to a painless being, neither hungering nor thirst- 
ing, who lost all consciousness of self in the deep abyss of 
thought. He had been there over an hour, yet it seemed but a 
few swift minutes to the miller, when he heard a light step 
crossing the courtyard. Putting his face close to the cob- 
webbed window, the miller looked out. The yard was white 
with falling snow, and threw out in strong relief the tall, wil- 
lowy figure of Ruth. The miller watched her pass through the 
gate and into the lane, then the shadow of the trees hid her 
from view. He wondered what took her out at that time of 
night, and in the snow. A new idea struck him suddenly, and 
he cursed the snow. Presently he drew back from the window, 
and pushed a rolling shutter in front of it. Then he struck a 
match, aod, lighting a horn-glazed lantern that hung on a 
wooden peg near the window, he proceeded to arrange some 
sacks so as to form a kind of chair with seat, arms, and back. 
In this the miller seated himself, and having discovered the 


A man’s burden 


69 


most comfortable angle for his large body, closed his eyes with 
a deep sigh. The way in which he settled himself among the 
sacks plainly indicated that he expected to spend some time in 
the mill; but his endeavor to make himself comfortable was 
unsuccessful, however, judging from the restless manner in 
which he continually kept changing his position. Several 
times he consulted his great double-cased silver watch, which 
it seemed to require no little strength to haul up from the 
depths of his fob-pocket; while at briefer intervals he sat up 
and listened attentively. Again he would lean back with a 
sigh, and close his eyes, as if coveting sleep. Yet he was not 
sleepy; he hated sleep, and dreaded its embrace, suffocating 
and horrible as the clutch of a great green cobra. Sleep was 
co him the time of relentless tragedy, wherein the murder that 
was on his unhappy spirit re-enacted itself over and over again 
with pitiless force and detail. ’Twas a wonder he had not 
gone raving mad. How his reason could have kept itself from 
growing dizzy and sick, and falling headlong from its throne, 
amid such a long procession of nightly horrors, is a problem 
we must leave to physicians and metaphysicians. 

Crime breeds crime: the miller was feeling this to-night, 
with a rage whose impotent heart was fear. What had Knee- 
bone, an utter stranger, to do with the taking off of his brother 
Abel ? Yet the chances were that, even at that moment, Knee- 
bone himself was a dire illustration of the terrible truth that 
crime breeds crime. Then, was not he — the miller — a free 
agent? Precisely; to the same extent and no more than he was 
on that far-off day in May when, like a second Cain, he slew 
his brother. Below the will, deep down in the hidden whirl- 
pool of motive, there was still at work the initial movement 
whose energy had once transmuted itself into fratricide. 
Would that primal force never wear itself out, never die of ex- 
haustion ? Could not its quality be changed? Could it not be 
opposed and annihilated by some other force operative in the 
secret places of human nature? Opinions differ. Meanwhile, 
one thing was certain: at core the miller was the same man as 
he was twenty years earlier — as he was, for the matter of that, 
fifty or more years before, while yet he drew milk from his 
mother’s breasts. In a dim way the miller was feeling this to- 
night; and, curiously enough, the realization of this bit of psy- 
chological truth translated itself into the physical sensation of 
a burn. He felt he was burning The sensation was local ; at 
times it was in his heart, and at times it was in his head — a 
spot of fire in the middle of his brain. 

“This is hell, hell itself!” he gasped, springing to his feet, 


7 ° 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


and clasping his head with his hands: then he paced to and fro 
between the sacks of corn. He was right — it was hell. His 
nature was capable of murder, and he saw the fact as through 
a glass darkly: there was a time when the fallen seraph himself 
would have known a new agony at the like vision. And the 
miller was not even “an archangel a little damaged.” He 
had only the rotten strength of his humanity to uphold him. 
Perhaps in that hour he trod nigh to the borders of the dark 
land of delirium. Presently he stood perfectly still and lis- 
tened. There was a faint noise below, which quickly grew 
into a distinct footfall on the steps leading into the grinding- 
room. 

“At last! I must pull myself together, or the rogue will 
smell a rat,” muttered the miller, half audibly. The process 
of pulling one’s self together on the spur of the moment is easy 
only in imagination, if only for the simple reason that not one 
man in a hundred knows how to go about it. The miller did 
not know. He shook himself like a big dog, and assuming his 
habitual expression of genial glumness to an exaggerated de- 
gree, he seated himself with a remarkable stiffness, which he 
meant for dignity, upon one of the upright sacks. As a come- 
dian’s effort to mimic and caricature the miller of Voe, the 
result would have been as excellent as it certainly was comic. 
Apparently he realized that something was wrong; for after he 
had posed for a few seconds he dropped from his position into 
the previously occupied chair of sacks. He crossed his fat 
legs with difficulty, pushed his wide-awake hat to the back of 
his head, and leaning back jauntily, began to whistle softly the 
familiar tune of “ Cheer, boys, cheer.” Never had the miller 
looked less like himself than at that moment, when he had 
made a supreme effort to pull himself together. 

He had barely given the last pull when the head and face of 
Am Ende were visible on a line with the floor, coming up the 
ladder. As Am leaned forward with his chin upon the floor, 
and peered into the dimly lighted room, the effect was that of 
a living head upon the floor, without a body. It was not a 
handsome head either. Hatless as it now was, its red hair might 
have been formed of minute wires, so stiff, savage, and un- 
kempt did it appear; its face was as sharp as a hatchet; its lit- 
tle red eyes twinkled and gleamed like the eyes of a gnome; its 
mouth was large, and something in the arrangement of the teeth 
made it seem ravenous as the mouth of a wolf. It was any- 
thing but a comely countenance, and as it lay there on the floor 
it looked weird, grotesque, horrible. The miller was perfectly 
familiar with the uncanny visage, and familiarity which is 


A man’s burden 


71 


cruel to beauty is kind to ugliness; nevertheless, a shiver went 
through the miller. He ceased whistling “ Cheer, boys, cheer,” 
and called out: “So you have come at last, have you?” 

“ I’ll et my head if I could mak’ out where you was, sir, it’s 
so dim-like. I heard somebody a-whistlin’, and I was a-saying 
to myself: ‘Demme, that bain’t the miller a-whistlin’.’ Never 
knowed you could whistle afore,” answered the head, with a 
grimace of pain. 

“ What’s the matter with you ? Don’t stick there, man, grin- 
ninglike a death’s head,” exclaimed the miller, with some heat. 
Whereupon Am Ende ascended the ladder, and came limping 
toward the miller; his body was long and lean, but had none 
of the grotesque ugliness that characterized his face and head. 

“I’m hurt, miller, badly hurt,” he said, with a snuffle. 

“ Where ? ” 

“Here, in the caulf o’ me leg. I’ve lost no end o’ blood,” 
answered Am Ende, feeling the calf of his right leg, which 
was bound round with an old dark-colored handkerchief. 

“ How did that happen?” 

“ Blest if I know to half an hour. I was a-makin’ off as hard 
as I could down hill, when crack went a pistol an’ I thought I 
was done for. I felt a stingin’ pain in me leg, and I yelled 
out enough to scare the dead. I came nigh swoonin’ when I 
got to th’ lane end.” 

“Idiot! Am I to sit here all night while you gabble about 
what you felt? What’s the meaning of it all ? What have you 
done?” roared the miller, with a purple face and hands that 
twitched with rage. 

“ I was a-comin’ to that, and there’s no cause to go and bully 
me like that, miller. We’d got our man down, and was a-givin’ 
it to him in fine style, when the devil began to fight like a 
Hindian and roar out ‘Murder ’ like a bull. Gad! at one time 
I was a-thinkin’ he was goin’ to knock us all out. The lads 
thought so, too. It got our blood up, I can tell you, and we 
just set on again in dead earnest; and his life ’udn’t ’a bin 
worth an old copper in five minutes’ time. You see, it was so 
infernally dark one couldn’t mak’ out one’s hand like. Well, 
all of a sudden we found out there was another chap in the 
game. Lord! he was like a spirit. ‘I know you all! ’ he 
yelled out. Gad! you should ’a seen the lads when they heard 
that. They thought it was a kind of spook. They made no 
bones about it, but just went like two scared deer over the 
wall into the woods. I tell you, I’m badly hurt, miller,” con- 
cluded Am Ende, with an exclamation of pain as he seated him- 
self on the top of a sack. 


7 * 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


For a moment or two the miller clutched and tugged at his 
collar and neckerchief as though he was choking; then he 
bounded to his feet, and before Am Ende could realize the sit- 
uation he found himself on the floor, with the miller on the top 
of him. 

“You damned rogue, why didn’t you kill him? Kill him, I 
say. Do you know what you’ve gone and done, you born 
idiot! ” gasped the miller, pounding the head of Am Ende as he 
thought upon the floor, but in reality upon the corner of an 
overturned sack half full of grain. 

“If I’d — killed him — you’d — ’a cursed me, but — I’ll do — it 
yet,” cried Am Ende, getting out the words as best he could, 
between the poundings of his head upon the sack. 

The miller was breathless and passion-spent. “ There, there; 
get up, you wretch! I’m a fool for dealing with a fool,” he 
said, relaxing his grip upon Am Ende, and rising to his 
feet. 

“I did the best I could. I’ll do better next time, though,” 
answered Am Ende, with one of his strange oaths. 

“ I dare say you will, if you get a chance. But you stand 
more chance of getting twenty years’ penal servitude. Any 
way, don’t you lift a finger against him again until I bid you; 
you understand?” 

“Yes, I understand. As for going to jail, you won’t let me 
do that, miller, I know,” remarked Am Ende. His tone of 
voice was at the most ambiguous only; but the miller was in 
an uncompromising mood. 

With a growl he turned on Am Ende, and said: “And why 
won’t I ? ” 

Am Ende kept his eyes on the ground, and was silent. 

Continued the miller: “Look here; let us have no mistake 
about it. If you had done the job neatly, I would have stood 
by you if anything had turned up. But I’ll never stand by a 
blundering fool. If anything comes of it — and your man has 
got a scent like a beagle, I’m thinking — you will have to get 
out of it as you got into it, by the aid of- your fat wits.” 

“Some folks dunna know when they’ve got a ring in their 
nose! ” snarled Am Ende, with great daring. Instinctively he 
held himself on the defensive as he spoke, expecting an attack 
from the infuriated miller. 

But the miller only uttered a scornful laugh, and said: “Hap- 
pen they don’t. And when I carry a ring, it will be for some- 
body else’s snout. I’m thinking we had better part for 
good. ” 

“Nay, miller, dunna say that. I didna mean to be impu- 


A man’s burden 


73 


dent. I ask your pardon, sir, for what I said about the ring. 
Keep me on, sir, and I’ll do your bidding, and no grumbling 
about it neither,” whined Am Ende, meek as a lamb. 

“Well, I’ll think about it,” answered the miller, gruffly. 
He knew his man, and knew his worth. 

“That’s like yourself, miller, and much obliged to you I be. 
You’ll try and help me out of this here scrape, sir — won’t you?” 
said Am Ende, in a tone of entreaty. 

“Happen I will, though you don’t deserve aught better than 
a taste of the treadmill. Sorry rascals you must have been not 
to be able to give one man a sound thrashing! You ought to 
be ashamed to show your face in the light. Get away with 
you!” cried the miller, in much the same tone as he would 
have rated his terrier for not facing a pugnacious rat. 

“You bain’t fair with us, miller. We did thrash him black 
and blue ; and you dunna count the spook,” protested Am Ende, 
reproachfully. 

“Nonsense, fellow! you none thrashed him. I told you — 
didn’t I? — to keep cool, lay it on well, and let him know that 
it was meant to betoken that we should value his absence more 
than his presence, eh ? ” 

“ Them was the orders you gave me, miller, and them was 
the orders I gave to the lads. And we let him know, too, what 
it betokened. But — I might as well own up — we didna keep 
cool enough.” 

“Cool enough! Didn’t I tell you there was to be no — no 
murder? — nothing but a good beating?” demanded the miller. 
His blanched face as he spoke the word “murder” struck Am 
Ende as being very curious. * 

“Well, who’s done any murder, I’d like to know? I judge 
I’m nearer dead than any one o’ them two. I feels queer-like 
here,” said Am Ende, tapping his forehead. 

“Well, that remains to be seen. You’ll feel funny in the 
morning, I’m thinking, when you hear you’ve done for him! ” 

Am Ende made no answer save with his eyes, which shot a 
sinister gleam. 

“ Have you any notion who was the bogey that scared you 
brave men?” inquired the miller. 

Am Ende shook his head decisively as he replied: “Not the 
sma’est on earth. From his tones he wasna a Voe chap.” 

Am Ende was a glorious liar, full-hearted, artistic, natural, 
and who did not hesitate to take both his eyes off truth, and had 
a fine contempt for the Cretans whose glance was askance. He 
was lying now. 

Said the miller, with a constrained manner: “Are you sure 


74 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


you would have known if it had been — well, say Kneebone’s 
assistant? ” 

“Known if it had bin young Boden’s voice! ” 

“ It was not, then ? ” 

“I’m dead sure o’ that; I’d tak a Bible oath it wasna neither 
young Abel Boden nor any other Voe chap,” said Am Ende, 
with the utmost solemnity. 

He was lying gloriously. He knew only too well that it was 
Abel Boden, and no one else, who had rescued Kneebone. But 
he also knew that the truth would be mightily unpleasant for 
his master to hear, and might be productive of consequences 
the reverse of agreeable to himself: a better reason for a lie he 
could not conceive. 

“Well, you’ve need to thank your stars it wasn’t him; but 
you will have to be mighty careful to avoid suspicion. Can 
you trust the other fellows?” 

“ Oh, they’re all right. It isna the first job of the kind 
they’ve done.” 

“You are sure they have no idea where the money came 
from ? ” 

“Take me oath on it. I’m a-feeling mighty queer-like, 
miller. I’m badly hurt,” said Am Ende, woefully. And, 
indeed, the scamp showed signs of giving out; his face was 
livid, and his lips were turning blue. Not that he was danger- 
ously wounded by any means. He had lost some blood at first, 
but the bandage had already put a stop to the bleeding. But 
he was afraid he was mortally wounded; and fear has killed 
more people than either bullets or disease. 

“ Let me look at your leg. I Teckon you are more scared 
than hurt,” remarked the miller, with a bit of contempt. 

Am Ende stretched forth the wounded limb, and the miller 
bent down to examine it. Suddenly Am Ende cried out: 

“Don’t! For God’s sake dunna touch it! Brandy, brandy ! ” 

The miller sprang up, and, seizing Am Ende by the shoulder, 
exclaimed: “Get up with you, and walk about! ” 

“I canna, miller — I canna,” groaned the fear-stricken man. 

“Nonsense! You’ll have to. Come — lean on me, and let 
us get down into the house,” said the miller, who was getting 
nervous himself. 

The prospect of Am Ende dying up there in the store-room 
frightened him. As he spoke, he put his arms round his com- 
panion and raised him on to his feet. With considerable diffi- 
culty he got him as far as the head of the ladder, but how to 
get him down he did not know. If Am Ende had only been a 
sack of grain, the miller would have put a chain round his neck. 


A man’s burden 


75 


and lowered him by means of a small crane at the other end of 
the room. But the crane would not work well in the present 
case. 

“Can’t you get down the ladder? Come, try,’’ said the 
miller in a persuasive tone. 

For an answer, Am Ende gave a deep groan, and made as if 
about to sink in a heap upon the floor. 

“ Good heavens! what am I to do with him?” ejaculated the 
miller. “ Do you think if I got you on my back, you could 
hold on till I got you to the bottom?” he asked. 

“ Dunna know. I’ll try,” murmured Am Ende. So the 
miller turned round and stooped a little, while Am Ende put 
his arms round his neck. 

“You must hold fast. If you fall you will be killed,” re- 
marked the miller. Then he descended the ladder, which 
creaked ominously under the heavy weight. 

The stairs leading down from the grinding-room were broad 
and strong, and altogether preferable to the shaky ladder they 
had just descended; but they were at the far end of the room 
from the ladder. The room was full of obstructions of one 
kind or another, and was, moreover, as dark as a chimney. 

“ Look here — I must go up and get the lantern, or we shall 
break our necks,” said the miller, putting up his hands and 
loosening Am Ende’s convulsive grasp. 

“Leave me here and fetch the doctor,” moaned Am Ende, 
sinking to the floor. 

“Doctor be hanged! It’ll get all over the place if a doctor 
comes fooling round. Aren’t you any better?” 

“I’m dying, miller, dying. Happen it’s as well to own up 
now.” 

“What do you mean? Speak, man, before it’s too late! ” 

“Th’ spook was young Abel Bo dyin’,” murmured Am 

Ende. His voice died away in a faint whisper, and all was 
silent as death. 

For a while the miller forgot all about Am Ende. His mind 
seemed to reel and stagger under confused images of murder 
and revenge. Perhaps Am Ende had lied all through, and the 
battered forms of Kneebone and Abel were lying stark and life- 
less on the black hillside, only waiting for the morning light to 
reveal the deed of darkness. If that was so, sure as fate there 
was a time of sifting before him. Years agone there had crept 
out, and mingled as it were with the air men breathed, dark 
rumors and sinister hints. None would father them, none 
would even speak them out; but the air was tainted with them. 
They came to nothing— perhaps they existed only in his imagi- 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


76 

nation — but they would revive again in an instant, and they 
would multiply, and maybe they would culminate in a great 
hoarse shout of “Away with him! Away with him!” Oh, it 
was horrible! And a groan of agony broke from the miller. 
Then again he thought of the two smiths not as dead but alive 
— altogether too much alive. He did not fear Abel’s hate, but 
Abel’s knowledge. Abel had fingers that could almost talk — 
fingers wise as a blind man’s. Abel had eyes like a fox, to 
which the darkness and the light were as one. He had cried 
out: “I know you all.” Abel was an arithmetician; he could 
put two and two together, and make no mistake about their 
sum. So could Kneebone, from all accounts. Abel’s wit 
would wing Kneebone’s anger, and between them they would 
’draw a bow at a venture, and let fly a shaft that would go home 
with a crash. Yes, he was going to be sifted as they sift wheat. 
He would not have minded, but that he felt he would turn out 
nothing but chaff. 

Just here the miller’s thoughts reverted to Am Ende, and he 
was about to curse him, when something suggested that perhaps 
the real Am Ende had silently flitted from the mill forever. 
Straightway the miller made up the ladder with all speed for 
the lantern. He was back again in a few moments, and as he 
held the lantern to Am Ende’s face his hands trembled. He 
started back terrified, and dropping the lantern on the floor, 
he put his hands to his head, exclaiming: “O God, he’s dead! ” 
He seemed at an utter loss what to do next. He thought he 
would go away and leave Am Ende lying there till morning, 
when he could perhaps manage for his foreman to find the body 
first. Then he thought he would carry the body into the house 
and send for the doctor; no, he would not take it into the 
house, but he would go at once and fetch the doctor. With 
this purpose he actually went as far as the stairs, but he came 
back again and stood gazing with the fascination of horror 
upon the prostrate form. Gradually the idea shaped itself in 
his mind that he would carry the dead man out into the planta- 
tion, and leave him there to be discovered when and how for- 
tune might direct. Questionless it savored of heartlessness, of 
inhumanity, but it was the most prudent course he could think 
of. It was a nasty thing to handle a dead body. He had done 
so once before — involuntarily he put his hand to his nether lip 
and scratched it. But no scratching could ease the sting and 
burn of that Cain spot. With a feeling of desperation the 
miller seized the body of Am Ende, shouldered it as he would 
a sack of flour, and with his deadly load passed down the stairs 
and out into the plantation. 


CHAPTER IX 


AT THE HAG STONE 

As soon as Ruth was gone, Abel plunged into the denser and 
darker part of the plantation which covered the steep slope of 
the hillside, and was of considerable extent. Abel was as 
much at home in a wood at night as most men, under the same 
circumstances, are at sea. A polecat had no keener vision, nor 
a fox a lighter tread. He moved under the trees, between the 
bushes, and over the innumerable ground-growths and other 
obstructions, swiftly and noiselessly, as a native woodland an- 
imal. His path was circuitous, though he appeared to be mak- 
ing for a definite point. At intervals he halted to listen for an 
instant, and then he went silently on again. At length he 
came to a great black rock that stood out from the steep face 
of the hill, known by the weird name of the Hag Stone. There 
was something dark and malignant, at the best of times, in the 
aspect of this solitary mass of grit-stone, towering up thirty 
feet or more; but in the broken moonlight, and amid the gloom 
of the pines, it suggested a crouching monster of the prime, 
grim, and terrible. By climbing the hillside, it was not very 
difficult to reach the broad flat top of the Hag Stone. It called 
for nerve rather than muscle. Abel had a fair share of the lat- 
ter and a rich endowment of the former. His night roamings 
had been an excellent discipline for his nerves, and had killed 
out all common squeamishness. And while his melancholy and 
semi-mystical temperament kept him effectually rooted to the 
strange, fantastic world of half experiences, his nocturnal hab- 
its had delivered him from the vulgar superstitions and illu- 
sions that haunt the generality of mankind. 

Without any hesitation, Abel made his way on to the top of 
the rock. He remembered well that, the last time he was there, 
he found himself face to face with a fox three parts grown. 
Reynard started up in surprise, snapped his teeth and growled 
sharply, and looked as if he meant business. Whereupon Abel 
went down on all-fours, and advancing backward till he came 
within range, he shot out his left foot with all his might, and 
sent the astonished fox headlong over the rock. There was no 


78 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


fox on the Hag Stone to-night, only a thin coating of snow. 
Taking off his soft hat and using it as a sort of broom, Abel 
cleared a space of the rock, and cast himself down upon it at 
full length. He forgot for the nonce that he had on what may 
be called his court dress, the pick of his wardrobe, and seldom 
donned save when he was to appear before his queen. He lay 
for a while motionless, then he raised his head a little above 
the rock and looked over. He could see the base of the rock, 
which projected forward at a precipitous angle. There stood 
the miller apparently wiping the perspiration from his brow, 
and at his feet lay the lifeless form of Am Ende. Between the 
branches of a big red-boled pine came a sudden flood of pale 
radiance, and fell, gray and ghast, upon the figures of the quick 
and the dead. Abel saw, and no longer doubted. His worst 
fears were confirmed. Am Ende was dead. Who had slain 
him — Kneebone or the miller? A great wave of sickness came 
over Abel, his head swam, he shuddered, and involuntarily he 
uttered a sound that began like a sigh and ended like a groan. 
The miller heard it, and without knowing what it was or 
whence it came, his ruddy face grew ashen and his knees 
trembled with terror. To him it was no mortal sound, but a 
supernatural echo of a similar sound that he had heard twenty 
years ago. Like a fury-haunted creature, he cast one glance 
at the body of Am Ende, and then turned and fled through the 
woods. 

Abel, whose quick ears could follow the movements of the 
wee beasties of the field and wood, and knew the characteristic 
sounds of the small fry of creation, heard nothing of the retreat 
of the miller, who went through the plantation like an elephant 
rather than a startled stag. His senses were confused, and his 
consciousness was numb to every idea save that of a dreadful 
calamity. It was some time before he realized his position, 
and rose to his feet. The base of the rock was now shrouded 
in sevenfold gloom, which Abel tried in vain to pierce with his 
keen vision. He listened, but could hear nothing. Only in 
imagination — the mystic light that never was on sea or land — 
could he see the dead man lying down there, under the shadow of 
the pines and firs. Gathering himself together, Abel left the 
Hag Stone and set off for home; but after he had gone some 
distance he changed his mind, and with his mind his route. In 
a little while he was at the Nag’s Head. He found Kneebone 
in his little back parlor, comforting himself with tobacco and 
toddy. 

“Why, lad, what’s up? You look as white as a sheet,” cried 
Kneebone. 


AT THE HAG STONE 79 

“I feel a bit shaky, I own,” answered Abel, as he seated him- 
self. 

“Well, just put the kettle on the fire, and we will soon mend 
that,” said Kneebone, getting another glass from the sideboard, 
and proceeding to mix some toddy. “There, lad,” he said, 
handing it to Abel, “ drink that. It has done me a power of 
good already. I tell you what, I am feeling sore all over me. 
Every bone in my body seems to have a separate and partic- 
ular ache all its own. I thought once of sending for the doc- 
tor to examine me. Then I thought I wouldn’t. I wasn’t sure 
that I wanted the affair to get out; leastways, not yet awhile. 
I judge I shall be all right in a day or two. I guess one or 
two of those miserable skunks are feeling pretty sore. May 
they have never a pipe nor a glass to console them till the 
next new moon, is all I wish them.” 

Kneebone spoke slowly, interjecting his sentences between 
the puffs of his pipe. He was careful to keep his voice up at 
the end of each remark, which was as much as telling Abel that 
he was not expected to talk yet. Abel understood the intona- 
tion, and kept silent, while Kneebone watched him furtively 
from under his shaggy brows. 

“You are feeling better, lad?” he said, presently. 

“I do, and no mistake,” answered Abel, whose countenance 
had recovered its colorless but healthy subcutaneous warmth. 

“Will you try a pipe?” 

“I don’t mind if I do.” 

“That’s right. Now we can defy fate.” 

The top of Abel’s tobacco seemed like a fiery eye that kept 
opening and shutting at each pull, when Kneebone said: 

“Now, if you like, you can tell me what has brought you 
back here again to-night.” 

Instantly Abel put his long clay pipe down upon the fender. 

“Nay, nay, none of that, lad. The pipe will keep you cool 
— only mind it doesn’t go out. If I had to report at head- 
quarters how the judgment day went off among men, I’m think- 
ing I should ask the great chief to let me report with a pipe 
between my teeth. If I could do it at all, I could do it then. 
If ever you are on your mettle, lad, stick to your pipe! It will 
keep the fire in your heart and the frost in your brain. I’ve 
known men to strike a match, globing it with their hands from 
the wind, and light their pipe, when death stood in front of 
them. And they never went down. Seems as how the light 
dazzled the great archer that he could not aim straight.” 

Kneebone spoke from a very varied and anything but a draw- 
ing-room experience. He knew what it was to pass months 


8o 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


alone in the lofty summit valleys of the Sierra Nevada, with- 
out seeing a living soul. In the Australian bush and the back- 
woods of Oregon, he had formed his estimate of the compan- 
ionship of a pipe, had discovered the almost divine virtue that 
resides in the fragrant weed. From it he had over and over 
again extracted companionship, consolation, and courage. He 
had come to regard it much as an ancient Hindu, half sensual- 
ist and half devotee, regarded the sacred soma-plant. And 
being, like most of his countrymen, the happy possessor of a 
few personal prejudices, he even went so far as to bracket the 
man that never smoked with the man that never laughed. Few, 
and not remarkably blessed, are the people that have no occa- 
sion to rejoice that the cultivation of a few roots of prejudice 
may go hand in hand with the successful culture of virtue and 
piety. 

While Kneebone was talking, Abel resumed his pipe. When 
his turn came, he said: “Some people, and there are doctors 
among them, are very down on smoking nowadays.” 

“No doubt. There’s nothing but what is cried down by 
somebody; but prejudice isn’t science, any more than a collec- 
tion of whims and crotchets is a gospel. As for the doctors, 
they breed cranks and croakers as many as do the clergy. But 
there — my saying is this, lad: If smoking agrees with you, and 
you like it, smoke. If it doesn’t suit you, and I reckon you 
will soon find it out if it doesn’t, then don’t smoke. The rest 
is all but leather and prunello. Now let me hear what’s up.” 

“Am Ende is dead,” said Abel, with tragic brevity. 

“Eh! What do you say?” exclaimed Kneebone, sharply. 

Said Abel again: “Am Ende is dead.” 

“ How do you know ? ” inquired Kneebone, incredulously. 

“ I have seen him. He’s lying at the foot of the Hag Stone. ” 

“Nonsense! You are dreaming. You have been upset, and 
your nerves are out of gear. What were you doing at the Hag 
Stone to-night, I should like to know?” 

“Nay, I’m none dreaming,” said Abel. Then he told Knee- 
bone how it all came about. 

Abel had no padding to do, and so his narrative was brief, 
swift, and powerful. When he had done, Kneebone lay back 
and laughed. As men weep for joy so they laugh with horror. 
Kneebone’s laugh was terrible. He thought he had slain a man. 

“I guess I’d better send for the doctor now,” he said ab- 
ruptly. Abel only stared at him, and said nothing. “ If I’ve 
got to be tried for murder or manslaughter, it may as well be 
on record that the rogues first beat me black and blue. Yes, I’m 
decidedly in need of a doctor. Good God, that I should ever 


AT THE HAG STONE 


Si 


have done such a thing! Ring the bell, lad.” And Kneebone 
lay back again in his chair and laughed. He thought he had 
slain a man! 

With his hand on the bell-rope, Abel paused and said: “We 
are not sure that we did the killing.” 

“We? We? What had you to do with it? I reckon I did 
the shooting, not you. But I’m not daft, lad; I understand it. 
A mongrel would have stood off from me now, and have looked 
after his own skin. You jump into the same boat with me, and 
are ready to work an oar side by side with me. Lad, before 
heaven, I would have done the like for you! But you would 
not let me, I know you wouldn’t. Nor am I going to let you. 
Now, what do you mean by saying that we are not sure that I 
did the killing? ” 

Abel let go the rope without pulling it as he answered: “I 
don’t like to say it, I’ll own, but there’s the miller. What 
was he doing with the body like that?” 

“That’s a leaky bucket, lad; won’t hold water. Don’t you 
see, the miller didn’t want the fellow to be found about the 
mill, for fear it should connect him with that ruffianly attack on 
me. The poor scamp was badly hit, it seems, bled to death at 
the mill, and the miller had to get rid of him. That’s my ver- 
sion, and by the same token I’m — ugh! it’s horrible, horrible! ” 
And Kneebone hid his face in his hands. 

“ It looks awfully probable, Mr. Kneebone, I’ll admit. It 
doesn’t follow that it’s true, though, for all that. Suppose Am 
Ende reported how things went on the hillside. He knows my 
voice well enough, and would let the miller know who it was 
that came to your help. The miller would argue that I recog- 
nized Am Ende. Everybody knows that Am Ende is a mere 
tool in the miller’s hands. He would argue that we should put 
two and two together. Don’t you think he would grow mad 
at the way Am Ende bungled the job? I do. By Jove! if he 
got an idea that his share in the work was likely to be known, 
his fury would almost choke him. In his passion he would fell 
Am Ende as he would an ox. I’m thinking it’s more likely 
the miller did it than yourself, sir.” 

For a while nothing was said by either of the two men, who 
sat smoking, with their eyes on the ruddy fire, wherein they 
saw images of coming trouble and woe. 

Said Kneebone presently: “There is something in what you 
say, but not much, I’m afraid. I should take more stock in it, 
if I hadn’t done the shooting. Come to think of it, it wasn’t 
right of me. He was running away when I did it.” 

“ He got no more than his deserts.” 

6 


82 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“Yea, lad, he did. I’m in no great hurry to die, but I’d 
rather have been killed myself than have killed a man. I fired 
low on purpose, as I thought, not to hurt him badly. I don’t 
think I’ll have a doctor now. In the morning I’ll go and put 
myself in the hands of the police.” 

“ I don’t think I would. Better wait a bit and see how things 
shape themselves. My mind isn’t at all clear as to the miller 
yet. But I’m sure of one thing. If you come forward to father 
the deed, he’ll never say you nay, whether he did it or not.” 

But Kneebone only shook his head, and answered: “I will 
stick to the programme, lad. There’s no good likely to come 
of delay.” 

“I shall go with you, then,” said Abel, resolutely. 

“There is no occasion; and you are better out of it, if you 
can be kept out.” 

“All right, but I’m going all the same. I fancy I’d better 
sleep here to-night.” 

“ Why?” 

“Then you won’t give me the slip.” 

“ Nay, since you wish it, I won’t do that. Go home, and 
try and get a good rest if you can. Old Nathan would wonder 
what had become of you.” 

Said Abel with a smile: “He knows my ways too well for 
that. I’m out more nights of the year than I’m in. Now I 
have got your promise, though, I will go home. I’ve got a bit 
of work at the smithy I shall want to finish before we go. I’ll 
come early, if you like?” 

“There is no need to hurry about it. I’ll come up to the 
smithy after breakfast. The dead never come to life again, do 
they, lad ? ” 

“No, not round here; nor are the lost ever found; nor do 
the absent ever return,” answered Abel, with a deep sigh. His 
eyes were on the fire, and Kneebone looked at him for some mo- 
ments with a strange expression of countenance. He seemed 
on the point of speaking, but he checked himself, and, like 
his companion, sighed deeply. A little later, the two shook 
hands and parted for the night. 

Christopher Kneebone spent a bad night. Not his aching 
limbs kept him awake, but his troubled thoughts. It was 
daybreak before he fell asleep, but once asleep he slept soundly 
for some hours. When he awoke, he sprang up and looked at 
his watch — ten minutes to nine! 

Only fancy, the village blacksmith in bed at nine o’clock 
in the morning, and this morning of all others! ” he said, ad- 
dressing the reflection of himself in the glass. He felt in 


AT THE HAG STONE 


83 


worse bodily condition than ever — stiff-jointed, and sore all 
over. But if it took him a long time to dress, he made up for 
it at his breakfast, over which he lingered but a very few min- 
utes. It was a pouring wet morning, and the village seemed 
deserted. Kneebone met no one between the Nag’s Head and 
the smithy. He found Abel busy at work, and nothing but an 
ordinary morning’s greeting passed between them. 

Kneebone seated himself on a bench and watched Abel work. 
Presently he said: “It’s time to be getting ready to start, 
isn’t it?” 

“ Yewdle Brig? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I don’t like the idea. It is like putting your head into the 
lion’s mouth. I’m thinking it would be as well to let the lion 
put it in himself, if he wants it,” said Abel, working the ldrge 
bellows with one hand, and holding a pair of tongs with the 
other. 

“I must go. I couldn’t rest with a load like this on my 
mind.” 

“ I went as far as the Hag Stone this morning to ” 

Abel ceased blowing and talking, and turned toward the 
shoeing shop adjoining where a horse was heard entering. 
Suddenly a man’s voice was heard talking to the horse, that 
seemed inclined to be restive. Abel put down the tongs, and 
had just picked up his tool-box when the man left the horse 
and came and stood in the doorway. It was Am Ende himself! 
There he stood, with his gleaming gnome-like eyes fixed first 
on Kneebone and then on Abel, a peculiar smile playing about 
his mouth, with his hands in his pockets, and his whole bear- 
ing one of masterly impudence. What brought him there was 
briefly this: On recovering from his deep swoon — for swoon it 
was, and nothing worse — Am Ende to his utter amazement found 
himself lying at the foot of the Hag Stone. He was terribly 
weak and half dazed, but he made his way back to the mill, 
where the miller received him with much the same feeling and 
much the same welcome as he would a real spook. 

Am Ende wanted to know how he came to be left lying “ like 
a dead jackass out in the woods,” as he graphically put it. 
For a while the miller hedged and dodged, but being hard 
pressed he finally admitted the truth. 

“ I swear I thought, you dead, and what was I to do ? It 
would never do for you to have been found in the mill. I’m 
nation glad you’re alive, man,” he said, with an unusual 
amount of feeling. 

With all his faults, Am Ende was not pig-headed. Indeed, 


8 4 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


he had a measure of sweet reasonableness in his composition. 
Hence he made no fuss, but like a wise man accepted the situ- 
ation, and declared himself satisfied, under the circumstances, 
with the miller’s explanation. That night he slept at the mill. 
Iri the morning he felt like staying in bed, but the miller routed 
him out, saying: “You can come to bed in an hour or two, but 
you must get up and show yourself. We are not out of the 
woods yet, you know.” Sometime later he said: “You’ll take 
the gray mare to the smithy. She wants a hind shoe.” 

Am Ende stared hard at hearing this, but said nothing. 
Doubtless the miller knew what he was about. So Am Ende 
put a halter on the mare and rode her to the smithy. On see- 
ing him, Kneebone sprang to his feet and stared like a wild 
man, first at Am Ende and then at Abel. 

“I’ve brought th’ mare from th’ mill, the gray un. She 
wants a hind shoe puttin’ on,” said Am Ende, grinning. 

“And where have you come from, I should like to know? I 
thought you were ” Abel checked himself. 

“I might ha’ bin visitin’ Old Nick, and smell o’ brimstun, 
the way you gaze at me,” answered Am Ende, boldly. 

“I’ll have the mare done in an hour,” said Abel. Where- 
upon Am Ende limped away. 

The two men watched him down the road, then Kneebone 
said: “Well, well! And just think what a lot of sentiment 
I’ve gone and wasted.” 


CHAPTER X 


A BIT OF INFORMATION 

It was Sunday morning, the first Sunday in April, and seem- 
ingly the first day in spring. In a cloudless sky of tenderest 
blue the sun poured down a rare flood of light and heat, glad- 
dening the eyes and warming the hearts of man and beast. A 
soft balmy wind came out of the south, rustling the dead 
leaves, and gently swaying the bare branches that were hasten- 
ing into bud. All nature was awake and happy, and, but that 
it was holy Sabbath, the trees stood ready to clap their hands 
and laugh aloud for joy. The old church of Voe, a barn-like 
structure dating from the fifteenth century, had been closed for 
a dozen years; a new church having been built by Squire Sax- 
ton at a short distance from the old one, but inside the park, 
and close to the hall. It was small and pretty, and very mod- 
ern in its interior coloring and decoration. Its single bell was 
now tolling in a sepulchral fashion, and up from Voe came a 
long, straggling line of men, women, and children, obedient to 
its summons. The nearest way from Voe was along the park 
drive, and on a Sunday all the gates were thrown open, except 
such as were necessary to keep in the deer and other park ani- 
mals; and the villagers generally availed themselves of the 
privilege of strolling between steep hillsides, whose bases were 
thickly fringed with laurels and rhododendrons, while the higher 
slopes were covered with ferns and long, fine grasses, dotted 
with lichen-marked bowlders, and crowned with large pines. 
Higher up the drive were avenues of beeches and chestnuts, 
with high grass-land to the right, and heavily rolling ground, 
well timbered and bronzed with bracken, stretching far away to 
the left. Fallow deer, donkeys, and Highland cattle were 
grouped here and there in artistic disorder, as though they had 
been educated into the knowledge that their chief duty in life 
was to make themselves ornamental. 

A great incentive to attend church on a fine Sunday morning 
was the prospect of a stroll through Owlcote Park. Inside the 
church, the southern transept was devoted entirely to the squire 
and his household. One-half of the northern transept was oc- 


86 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


cupied by the choir, while the remaining half consisted of a large 
pew which, like that of the squire, was dignified with a crim- 
son curtain in front, supported by a brass rod and rings. This 
curtain was usually put to the purpose for which it was de- 
signed; for while the squire’s curtain was always drawn aside 
as far as possible, the opposite curtain was invariably extended 
so as to completely hide its occupants from the gaze of the 
body of worshippers in the nave. And, because we generally 
see a thing in the worst of all possible aspects, this drawing of 
the curtain seemed like pride or ostentation, while it might 
very well have been due to sheer modesty, or dislike of prom- 
inence during worship, or even intense devotion. Whatever 
might have been the motive, however, such was the fact. 
“ Gentleman ” Phythian’s pew was always curtained close as a 
confessional. 

The occupants of the pew, on the above-mentioned morning, 
were a gentleman and a lady, who, as usual, were the first to 
eitfer the church after the clerk had opened the doors; they 
were also the last to leave the church, as a rule. They were 
both attired in drab, and about them seemed to cling an air of 
refined, old-fashioned quaintness that impressed one like a rare 
and pleasant odor. It was difficult to lay the finger on anyone 
point of singularity, and when this was done, the sole result 
was disappointment arising from a sense of having, after all, 
missed the true point. No critical observation or analysis ever 
seemed to yield the real cause of distinction. Items such as 
the tint of their costumes, the antique style of the gentleman’s 
necktie, the peculiar draping of a peculiar shawl, the bowed 
hair over the lady’s temples, all doubtless contributed to the 
general effect, though they were felt to be contemptibly inad- 
equate when considered as the efficient cause. One’s soul is, 
or should be, the chief and dominating fact about one; and a 
touch of singularity in the soul may very well express itself 
like a diffused perfume or universal tint. There will be no 
distinct mark of eccentricity, no definite badge of oddity; but, 
on the other hand, everything, from style of costume to cast of 
countenance, will be delicately touched with the peculiar qual- 
ity of the soul. The result may be exceedingly pleasant, or 
the opposite. Everything is in degree. And given the right 
degree, the result is a delicate and delicious quaintness that 
may very easily be mistaken for a vestige of the manners of a 
bygone generation. 

We are inclined to the opinion that to this category belong 
some of the sweetest characters on earth, and possibly some also 
of the sourest. To this category belonged the lady and gentle- 


A BIT OF INFORMATION 


87 

man in the red-curtained pew. In features they were much 
alike, and conformed a little to the Jewish type ; though we 
believe we are correct in saying that they had not a drop of the 
grand old Semitic blood in their veins. Husband and wife, 
were they? No; they were simply sister and brother, byname 
Janoca and Balthasar Phythian. In the order of sister and 
brother we insinuate two important facts — to wit, seniority 
and supremacy. Miss Janoca Phythian had just entered her 
ninth lustrum, while her brother was, fortunately or unfortun- 
ately, only in the middle of his eighth. 

Only children, fools, and centenarians are supposed to regret 
the fewness of their years; nevertheless, when it is allied 
with the kindred fact of domestic juniority, youthfulness is as 
apt to assume the form of a thorn in the flesh as of a rose in 
the button-hole. Janoca Phythian never allowed herself or her 
brother to forget the thirty months’ start she made over Bal- 
thasar in the race of life. She had got the start of him, and 
she kept it ; for what was the earthly use of going to the trouble 
of getting into swaddling-clothes two years and a half before 
Balthasar if she was not to remain mistress of the situation all 
through? The idea was so absurd that Mistress Janoca had 
never for a moment doubted that Balthasar fully appreciated 
its absurdity. And, to do that humor-loving and gentle-minded 
gentleman justice, he had never been blind to the absurdity of 
the idea, as it existed in Janoca’s mind. That he thought her 
thought on the subject is open to question, though it must be 
admitted he was a most dutiful subject. He never revolted, 
never conspired, very seldom availed himself even of the con- 
stitutional right of petition. The tactics of an obstructionist 
did not commend themselves to his sense of fairness, nor the 
methods of an agitator to his sense of dignity. He could have 
agitated only among himself; and it is an ascertained politico- 
psychological fact that “ agitators ” prefer to operate upon the 
“ masses ” rather than themselves. They are the impassive bat- 
teries that generate and distribute the electric fluid that make 
such a commotion. 

As if to support and lend dignity to the Janocian theory, 
Nature had subordinated the slight figure of the man, in stat- 
ure. The difference was but small — perhaps half an inch — but 
the effect was great. It was like a crown on the head, like a 
tower on a cathedral. Again, the difference in height was ac- 
centuated by the upright and stately carriage of Janoca, as 
compared with the easier and less erect bearing of Balthasar. 
The hair of both, a dark brown, was already streaked with 
silver; both had dark eyes, noses slightly arched, large mouths 


88 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


full of sweetest humanity, and lovely teeth, and their expres- 
sion of countenance was appropriate, as a satirical person once 
said, to a governing woman and a governed man. There was 
a look of power in the face of Janoca that was only hinted in 
the face of Balthasar. Both were lovable faces, almost hand- 
some, brimful of intelligence, refined and humane; but some- 
how the degree of sweetness was with the man, as that of 
strength was with the woman. Janoca was slender and tall, 
but not tall enough to allow any margin for her brother to boast 
on the score of his height above the average. For the rest, 
they were people of means, and for the last seven years had 
lived at the old manor-house, known as Carbel Chase, about 
a couple of miles from the mill, which had been left to them 
by an uncle. Previous to that they had resided a mile or two 
beyond Yewdle Brig; so that the Voese had never quite es- 
teemed them lightly as being foreigners. Voe always spoke 
of Balthasar as “ Gentleman ” Phythian. It was understood 
that he had been bred to the law, though he had not practised 
for many years. 

Says Parini, “When I was a young man I used occasionally 
to return to Bosisio, my native place. Every one there knew 
that I spent my time in study and writing. The peasants gave 
me credit for being poet, philosopher, doctor, mathematician, 
lawyer, theologian, and sufficiently a linguist to know all the 
languages in the world. . . . But whenever I gave them reason 
to think my learning was not as extensive as they supposed, I 
fell vastly in their estimation, and in the end they used to per- 
suade themselves that after all my knowledge was no greater 
than theirs.” Now, if there is anything in language more sure 
than Grimm’s great phonetic law, it is the fact that Bosisio 
in Italian spells Voe in English. Indeed, it is highly probable 
that at some remote period of time a colony of Voese settled 
at Bosisio, and named it after their original dwelling-place. 
That they were Aryans there can be no doubt, for none but 
Aryan peasants were ever capable of seeing in a returned na- 
tive a duodecimo edition of the Almighty. Voe had a super- 
stitious reverence, finely blended with practical contempt, for 
knowledge that was too deep for it; and this kind of knowl- 
edge found its typical expression in the law. 

“ Gentleman ” Phythian was credited, like Parini, with being 
a master of most branches of knowledge. The idea of his im- 
mense learning was stamped upon their imagination like a line 
of great-primer. He had all legal science: whether canon 
law, or civil, or commercial, or common, or criminal, or 
ecclesiastical, or international, or maritime, or martial, or 


A BIT OF INFORMATION 


89 


moral, or Mosaic, or municipal, it mattered not a fig — he had 
it all snugly packed away and boxed up in that wonderful lit- 
tle cranium of his. That he carried under his hat, like so 
much dynamite, sufficient knowledge to make or mar one-half 
the families of England, was an article of faith among the vil- 
lagers. How they got the idea was something of a mystery. 
Certainly not from Balthasar, who was one of the most modest 
of men — modest not in an ethical sense, but an intellectual. 
It is only in the United States that people lay a stress on eth- 
ical modesty as a great masculine virtue. Elsewhere men have 
sung it in praise of women. Perhaps in the future women will 
sing it in praise of men. In part, the legend concerning Bal- 
thasar was due perhaps to Janoca, who had a habit of saying to 
any of the people she had dealings with: “Mr. Phythian says 
so-and-so, and Mr. Phythian knows everything.” 

Said in her best manner, the saying was effective. People 
went away possessed with the idea that the courteous little law- 
yer was a man worth looking at, knowing all things. Like 
most clever women, Janoca had a touch of grave contempt for 
her sex — was as firmly convinced that they were incapable of 
ruling wisely as that she herself was capable. She was, so 
far, a stanch believer in the established order of things — 
wished to perpetuate it, and shrank from violating or weaken- 
ing the sentiments and prejudices that were its public sanction 
and safeguard. Her saying, therefore, respecting her brother, 
may be understood as her method of veiling her supremacy 
from the vulgar eye. She displayed in public none of the in- 
signia of rule, and cultivated a verbal fiction to conceal a do- 
mestic revolution. Logically, omniscience does not imply 
omnipotence; and between Balthasar being a master of all 
knowledge and being master in his own house, there was a 
deep sea instead of dry land. 

But the Voese were not given to logic, and were expert in 
confounding ideas. Janoca’s ruse was successful. Gentleman 
Phythian was popularly accredited with masking an iron hand 
under a silken glove. Side by side with respect for his erudi- 
tion went contempt for the little use he made of it. Beneficence 
entered into nobody’s calculation. Folk simply marvelled that 
he was not maleficent. How it came about it is not our prov- 
ince to inquire, but the popular conception of power was es- 
sentially Satanic among the Voese. If they had only his knowl- 
edge and power what would they not do ? One thing was cer- 
tain — they would each have a hall, and a park with deer and 
donkeys and Highland cattle in it, and drive a roan horse, and 
even stutter like the squire himself. Moreover, they would 


9 ° 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


turn the squire into a poor quarryman, and teach him to curse 
the wretched climate and the wet days that either kept him idle 
or gave him rheumatism; he should live in a dirty cottage, and 
his lady should have to take in washing. There was fun in 
this fierce, side-splitting fun, that made Jake and Reuben roar 
till the tears came. Ah me! Ah me! 

“ Yawns the pit of the dragon, 

Lit by rays from the blest.” 

Little did Balthasar Phythian dream what a star of splendid 
ray he appeared to some scores of eyes, what a fantastic and 
fiery world he was the living centre of! How he would have 
laughed! How he would have joked! How sad-eyed and sick- 
hearted he would have grown ! How he would have sighed, 
and hid himself from the sight of the little men with which 
God had “taunted the lofty land!” But his thoughts were 
pitched to quite a different tune. For though he was high- 
minded, and selected his thoughts as he did his friends and his 
wines, nathless did he daily condescend in his sympathies to 
men of low state. A lover of humanity, a friend of the peo- 
ple, a seer of great truths in small facts, of things lovely in the 
midst of ugly things, he covered himself with charity as with a 
garment, and had a pleasant consciousness that he wore the 
garment with no akwardness and with some little grace. 
Blessed is the man whose egotism is of no ranker growth. In 
a word, we may say of Balthasar Phythian what Coleridge said 
of a spiritual kinsman of his: “Nothing ever left a stain on 
that gentle creature’s mind, which looked upon the degraded 
men and things around him like moonshine on a dunghill, 
which shines and takes no pollution. All things were shadows 
to him, except those which moved his affections.” 

On this April Sunday morning, which was full of the genius 
of God, a remarkable phenomenon occurred, which was ob- 
served by nearly every one in church. The service was 
just getting under way when, to everybody’s astonishment, 
Janoca Phythian deliberately took the exclusive red curtain, 
drew it aside, and pushed it closely to the end of the rod! She 
did this with no haste or awkwardness, but with exquisite cool- 
ness and propriety, taking three or four graceful steps along 
the front of the pew the better to accomplish her purpose. 
Then she stepped back to her rush-bottomed chair beside her 
brother, adjusted her gold eye-glasses, and went on with the 
service, as cool as a cucumber. The ghost of a smile was vis- 
ible about the mouth of Gentleman Phythian, who kept his eyes 
upon his prayer-book, while he held his eye-glasses three or 


A BIT OF INFORMATION 


91 

four inches from his nose. A strange momentary something — 
it was more like unto a low, indistinguishable sound, inarticu- 
late and subterranean, than anything else — filled, or seemed to 
fill, the church. Newspaper reporters would have expressed it 
thus: {sensation in church). Heads turned, eyes met, glances 
and facial muscles worked like telegraph instruments, and for 
some seconds the myriad motes in the sunshine seemed to be a 
dancing series of ?!?!?!?!?!?! Was Pride going to abdicate 
and cultivate cabbages, like Diocletian? Had the Phythians 
been converted? Was Miss Janoca’s new bonnet at the bottom 
of it all ? Had it any connection with A Time, Times, and 
Half a Time? Was the millennium at hand, when the lion and 
the lamb would gambol together in Owlcote Park? 

Curious how thin is the world-crust of reason, and how easily 
it is broken through. Grim, too, is the reflection that below 
the wafer of rationality are the seething magma , the twin pulps 
of fiery madness, inclosing the stony heart of central stupidity. 
Sparks of madness and particles of stupidity would have been 
seen in great streams and clouds, if one-half the ideas sug- 
gested byjanoca’s act had been visibly embodied in fire and rock. 
Half-way through the sermon Janoca bent toward her brother 
and whispered: “I want you to look at that young — lady sit- 
ting at the end of the pew under the tablet.” 

Balthasar looked, and continued looking, for the object indi- 
cated was pleasant to look upon. The young lady contem- 
plated was dressed in a pretty close-fitting costume of a light- 
brown shade, and wore a dainty little bonnet the exact color of 
her hair. Her tall, well-developed figure, graceful bearing, 
and the way in which she carried her head, imparted to her a 
certain air of distinction. Her countenance, likewise, was re- 
fined, and full of character. Without being beautiful, her face 
held much of the charm of beauty. She was a brunette, and 
the high color in her cheeks was singularly pure, and made no 
encroachment upon the delicate whiteness of her lovely throat. 
Brown were her eyes, and moulded for love and kisses was her 
mouth. A sweet, lovable creature, built on lines of intelli- 
gence affection, and fidelity, and expressly designed by Nature 
to 

“ Disappear in blessed wife, 

Servant to a wooden cradle, 

Living in a baby’s life.” 

The sermon was ended, when Janoca whispered, interroga- 
tively: “Well?” 

“I have looked at her,” answered Balthasar, gravely. 

“Do you know who she is?” asked Janoca. 


92 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“Yes; Miss Boden, the miller’s daughter, isn’t she?” 

“Yes. I have a bit of information for you.” 

“ Indeed ! What is that, pray ? ” inquired Balthasar, reach- 
ing for his hat and stick. f 

Answered Janoca: “That girl, Balthasar, is your future — * 
wife!” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

With an air of great deliberation Balthasar sat back in his 
chair, put his broad-brimmed silk hat upon his head, and look- 
ing calmly through his glasses at his sister, said: “What did 
you say, Jano? Well, what is the matter, pray?" 

“Balthasar Phythian, are you taking leave of your wits? 
Don’t you know where you are?” inquired Janoca, with a hor- 
rified look upon her face. 

As she spoke she rose to her feet for the final hymn and, step- 
ping forward, drew the curtain quickly in front of the pew. 
Then she turned, and bending down to Balthasar, who still 
kept his seat, she took his hat from his head, saying with an 
ironical smile about her mouth : “If you look like a Quaker, 
that is no reason why you should act like one. I will hold it 
for you till you are out of church.” 

Balthasar flushed heavily for a moment or two. He looked 
up at his sister, who was now singing sweetly in front of the 
red curtain; her eyes were devotionally high, and her hymn- 
book lay open on the top of his hat, which she held in front of 
her with both hands. Balthasar stood up. Janoca’s nose grew 
devotional as her eyes, and went up several degrees. Without 
turning his body in the least, Balthasar’s hand went out, and 
when it came back it held Janoca’s hymn-book. A moment 
later he broke forth into singing. He had a capital voice, and 
ought to have been fined for not singing regularly in church, 
whereas he never sang at all. Janoca, hearing the unwonted 
sound, turned quickly and looked first at her brother, and then 
at the top of his fine silk hat, and then again at her brother. 
His nose was at a beautiful pitch, his eyes were on the vaulted 
ceiling; rapt in devotion, he was singing like a musical saint. 
Janoca felt inclined to laugh. 

It was a long hymn unabridged, and Janoca thought it would 
never end ; and how silly it was to stand there, holding devoutly 
a man’s silk hat in her hands! At the last verse but one, she 
leaned over a little and said: “Would you like your hat?” 

Answered Balthasar: “Would you like your hymn-book?” 


94 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


Then they faced each other and stood for a momen or two, 
both holding at once to hat and book. “One, two, three! 
murmured Janoca, and the one let go the hat and the other the 
book. 

Balthasar sat down hat in hand, and Janoca joined in with 
the singing of the last verse. So ended the first scene of the 
first act of the Phythian Comedy of Courtship. 

The Phythians, for some unknown but doubtless perfectly 
sound reason, dined early on Sundays. And it was toward 
the close of the great ceremony, when dessert was on the table, 
and the butler had withdrawn, and Balthasar had just begun 
to avail himself of the Sabbatic privilege of smoking a cigar 
in the dining-room, when Janoca next referred to the startling 
“bit of information” which she had communicated to her 
brother in church. 

“Are you not glad that it is settled, Balthasar?” she in- 
quired, suddenly. 

Balthasar had pushed his chair a little from the table and 
was leaning back, with his eyes closed, and his feet stretched 
out in front of a seasonable fire. 

“Yes,” he answered, sweetly, “very. What do you refer to, 
though ? ” 

“ Whom you are to marry, of course. It was an inspiration, 
Balthasar — nothing less than an inspiration.” 

“I thought the days of inspiration were over, Jano?” mur- 
mured Balthasar, softly. He thought the flavor of his cigar 
unusually good. 

“For men, certainly; but not for women,” answered Janoca, 
with beautiful intonation of voice, and a stately bend of her 
wise head. Balthasar laughed mellowly. 

“ I do not wish you to waste any time over it. And do not 
fiddle-faddle in your wooing. I have done my part, and now 
you do yours,” continued Janoca, with no little decision in her 
tone. 

“You have lost no time in providing me with a lady to wed, 
I’ll admit. When I threw up the job as a hopeless affair, I 
gave you a calendar month to do it in. You have not been a 
fortnight over it. I admire your energy, Jano, though it 
makes for my destruction,” said Balthasar, speaking very lei- 
surely. Like his sister, he had a beautiful voice, and used it 
beautifully. 

“Yes; I have been about as many days as you have been 
years, with this difference, that I have done something, while 
you never did anything,” answered Janoca. 

“Ah, yes! ‘ Where angels fear to tread’ ought to be, one 


THE GREAT ADVENTURE 


95 


would think, a sparsely populated locality. But it isn’t, Jano. 
The poet, who ought to know — for he evidently visited that 
region — himself says it, that the inhabitants thereof are many. 
Jano, I am given to thinking, dear, that the wise man might 
well slip the hare and sidle up to the tortoise, when he is on 
his way to pick out the one girl of all the girls in creation that 
is to be his wife,” said Balthasar, with an air of grave philos- 
ophy. 

Janoca looked at him less severely. Then she smiled — she 
looked wondrously sweet* when she smiled — and said, “I do 
not care to see wisdom used as a mask to hide the face of folly, 
brother. You speak your wittiest when you are thinking your 
weakest. I said, if you could not find a wife for yourself I 
would find one for you.” 

“ I was looking among the stars for my angel. You had the 
advantage of me there, Jano. You looked in the mill, the 
village mill, and there you found her. Are you sure her an- 
gelic whiteness is not — flour-dust?” 

Sarcasm is derived from sarkazd, a dog-like rending of the 
flesh. But everything depends upon the dog. There is the 
big-mouthed, iron-jawed brute, that rends like a hyena. And 
there is the gracefully lumbering puppy, as large as a sheep, 
as docile as a calf, as wise as an old crow; and his teeth are 
as so many needles. He playfully brings them together with 
your finger between, and you — squeak. Janoca made no audi- 
ble noise, but mentally she squeaked. Balthasar’s words 
had a tooth-like sharpness. It was she who had always been 
the one to dwell upon the quality of the Phythian descent. It 
was she who never wearied of reminding Balthasar that it was 
part of his religious duty to marry none but a lady of fair 
degree. 

“ I thought you always said that it did not matter who she 
was, or what she was, so long as she was the one you cared 
for?” said Janoca, lamely, and conscious of her lameness. 

“ Have I said that the lady of the mill is the one I care for? 
She is your choice, not mine. I shall want her to shake her 
dress every time before I go near to her. ” 

He would like to have laughed out, for it was not often that 
he could get Janoca into a corner. But laughter would have 
spoiled the fun; so he kept his face grave and his tongue filed. 

“ I would as soon she had the dust of a flour-mill upon her 
as the dust of a coal-mine, brother, or the smell of beer upon 
her.” 

“And I would rather she had neither. The proper tang, 
Jano, is a smack of the soil. It is pleasant as the odor of this 


9 6 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


cigar. You were thinking of Lord Lyntaille and Miss Charbon- 
de-Bois when you spoke of coal, I suppose? Ah, if I were only 
a lord, I would marry a mustard manufactory, I would espouse 
a lead-mine! But as plain Balthasar Phythian, I shrink from 
even a flour-mill.” 

“ No, it is not that, Balthasar. What you are afraid of is — 
a wife! If the ceremony were all, and you could leave your 
bride honorably at the church-door and never put eyes upon 
her again, there would be no difficulty in getting you to marry,” 
said Janoca, in accents of reproach. % 

“ That was a shrewd saying, Thou resemblest the spirit whom 
thou comprehend’st. I opine, Jano, that we are both a bit 
loath to pass matrimonially sub jugum — that is to say, under 
the yoke.” 

“You know nothing at all about it. I have never yet seen 
the man I should care to call husband; though more than one, 
as you know, brother, would have been glad to call me wife,” 
answered Janoca, with a grave inclination of her head, while a 
soft blush of modesty overspread her handsome face. 

Seeing her just then, it was a distinct pleasure to know that, 
if she was still maiden, the fact was not due to that proverbial 
masculine obtuseness whereby, of women, the worse is so often 
taken and the better left. 

“ I know it, Jano. And being selfish I have rejoiced that 
the race of men was so imperfect in your eyes. Jano, when I 
see a woman just like you I will marry her at once.” 

“You will? No, sir, you will not. She would not have 
you.” 

“Don’t you think I should make an excellent husband, 
then ? ” 

“Not for the alter ego of Janoca Phythian, sir. But for the 
woman you are going to have, you will make an excellent hus- 
band — a trifle odd, a bit sentimental; a shade too amiable, too 
philosophical, too learned; but still, on the whole, an excellent 
husband. Wayward, but kind; dappled with conceit as all 
men are, but veined with sympathy as but few men are; fond 
of ideas, but not averse from action. A man whose nature is 
stocked full of the seeds whence spring the flower-like virtues 
that make a lovely mystery and charm of character. Only, 
in this particular man the seeds have not sprung yet. Yes, I 
think I could recommend you, brother, as a husband. You are 
at least a green twig and full of sap, while most men are with- 
out sap and are as brown branches,” said Janoca, with great 
sobriety and equal candor, and an intonation as melodious and 
perfect as that of a mountain brook. 


THE GREAT ADVENTURE 


97 


Balthasar laughed and said, “You had better write that out, 
Jano, in your neatest hand, and sign it. I will carry it in my 
pocket when I go a-wooing. If my wits should not sit close 
about me, and I should ever find myself hard up for something 
to say, I could pull it out and give it her to read. But seri- 
ously, though revenge may be sweet and pious and good to 
sleep upon, is it one’s duty to damage one’s self more than the 
enemy ? ” 

“Yes. If you were dead I would find a husband in less than 
a month, rather than Philip Phythian should ever have a penny 
of our money,” answered Janoca. There was as little love in 
her mouth and eyes as in her words. 

“Ah me! who were the happy people who used to lie down 
and die at pleasure? I could wish that the pleasant art was 
known to Englishmen. Jano, count me as one dead. I shall 
not object, not in the least. From this day forward let me be 
nothing but an animated corpse in your eyes. I will announce 
myself to the world as defunct if you will only do the marrying 
and the bringing forth of the child whose existence, like a fierce 
sun, shall dry up the stream of Philip Phythian’s hopes. It is 
really your place to attend to such business, rather than mine.” 

“ No, you are not dead yet. Did I not say you were a green 
twig? ” 

“A breath only, Jano. It is not yet written down and 
signed. And if it were I would empty the inkpot on the phrase. 
I refuse to be a green twig any longer. I prefer to be a sort 
of withered fig-tree.” 

“ When your cigar is finished we will go.” 

“ Go ? Where ? ” 

“ To see the father of the — the lady of the mill, and get his 
consent. Nothing like striking while the iron is hot,” said 
Janoca, who thought that the debate had lasted long enough 
and the time had arrived for the cloture. 

Balthasar, the minority, thought otherwise. Said he, “You 
are right there. The iron should be hot when one strikes. 
But the iron is not hot, not even warm. It is cold, Jano, cold 
as a block of ice. We must do no striking to-day; besides, it 
is Sunday. You wouldn’t surely have a man go hammering on 
the anvil of courtship on a Sunday?” 

“ The better the day the better the deed. The getting of a 
wife is as important a piece of business as the getting of an 
unfortunate one out of a pit.” 

“ Only in this case, unhappily, it is the other way about. 
You would set the unfortunate one to dig his own pit,” sighed 
Balthasar, who showed no inclination to hurry over his cigar. 

7 


9 8 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“Well, brother, if I cannot cure your perversity of spirit, I 
must do my best to regulate your conduct. I am going to put 
my things on,” said Janoca, rising. 

Balthasar looked at her, almost startled. “ It is madness! ” 
he exclaimed; “the girl is already engaged.” 

It was Janoca’s turn now to be startled. But she did not 
show it. Her clasped hands tightened a little, and her mouth, 
instead of opening, grew firm. And that was all the outward 
expression there was of the sharp spasm of disappointment that 
smote her like sudden pain. Her voice was under beautiful 
control as she said, “That is unexpected news. Is it true, 
Balthasar? ” 

Balthasar looked at her for some moments in silence. He 
had a terrible habit of truthfulness, and he was realizing its 
inconvenience. Should he tell a lie just for once? Possibly 
his moral palate would be all the better for a touch of bitter 
tonic. Possibly the world at large was wiser than he had given 
it credit for, and had discovered the medicinal virtue of a good 
round lie. Possibly when the Psalmist, in his haste to tell the 
truth for once, sang that all men were liars, he was saying 
little more than that cats love mint, and gastronomes olives. 
But Balthasar, being healthy, was a creature of prejudices; 
and almost against his conscience, which seemed to desire alli- 
ance with his judgment, he decided to stick to the truth. 

“ I cannot say for a fact that it is so, but a girl like that is 
sure to be engaged; she is the pick of the place.” 

“Ha! I thought I should have been sure to hear of it if it 
really were so. You will find she is free, brother. I shall not 
be longer than a few minutes,” said Janoca, passing from the 
room. 

Balthasar sat listening until the soft footfall of his sister 
upon the stairs died away; then he sighed deeply, and threw 
the stump of his cigar into the fire. Most of us know what it 
is to sit waiting, expecting the door every moment to open and 
the dentist to say, with a bland smile, “ Now, sir, I am ready, 
if you will step this way, please.” Balthasar was in a very 
similar state of mind. He had no definite thought in his mind, 
only a number of inconsequent ideas — broken, fragmentary, 
and rough-edged — filling him with sharp pains. While over 
all was a sense of the impending operation. Was he dreaming, 
or was he, on this bright and peaceful Sunday afternoon, actu- 
ally going to put his hand to the matrimonial plough? The 
thing was so sudden, so unthought of, so absurd ! He lay back 
in his chair and laughed outright at the waking dream. 


THE GREAT ADVENTURE 


99 


Then the door opened, and Janoca said mellifluously, “I am 
ready, brother ! ” 

Balthasar sprang to his feet as if shot, and answered, “ So 
am I.” 

It was a brave word, and was bravely spoken; so much so 
that Janoca marvelled greatly, and gave her brother a search- 
ing glance. He smiled placidly, and merely said, thinking of 
the dentist, “Well, I suppose it will soon be over.” 

“Indeed, I hope not. You are not going to have a tooth 
drawn, you know. ” 

Odd that she should have hit upon the very idea that was in 
his mind, thought Balthasar. He looked at Janoca and laughed. 
Then, without another word, they went forth upon their Great 
Adventure. 


CHAPTER XII 


DEM MUTHIGEN HILFT GOTT 

In Peakshire, the home of the beautiful, beauty is nowhere 
more at home than in the region round about Voe. And Voe 
itself had nothing prettier to show than the walk between the 
Chase and the mill. The highway from Voe to Yewdle Brig 
ran quite close to the back of the Chase, but the house was 
completely hidden from view by a lofty wall, green with lichen, 
and in summer dotted with the pink and blue and purple faces 
of the tiniest of the flowery tribes. Great chestnut-trees threw 
their branches over the wall. 

Janoca and Balthasar went, not along the highway, but 
through their small park and the plantation beyond. They 
followed a mere grassy trail, that wound here and there 
and up and down, as if its sole purpose had been to take 
in every fine point of observation and every rich patch of 
beauty; clumps of timber; sweet-voiced brooks; hollows full 
of bracken and rabbits; dingles where the snowdrops grew, 
and the primroses, and the wild roses, and the blackberry- 
bushes; slopes where centuries of rains had done their denuding 
work, and the dark rocks showed their stern faces, with some- 
times their naked heads and shoulders; here the lone, tall elm, 
home of the solitary crow, and there the low, broad holly, from 
whose top the blackbird whistled; lowland meadows where fat 
cattle lay blinking in the sunshine; and ploughed uplands, 
whence one could see valley after valley, and hill upon hill; 
and wild moorlands lying close against the sky, and looking 
like short cuts to the kingdom of heaven. There followed a 
short steep descent through a wood, and then Janoca and 
Balthasar stood upon the highway, a few hundred yards above 
the mill. , 

Not a word had been spoken by either the whole way. Janoca 
had kept her eyes open all the time, and had never, she thought, 
enjoyed the walk more. But Balthasar had seen nothing but 
the ground in front of him, and some of the protruding stones 
that formed steps over the walls they had crossed — together 
with some stepping-stones across a couple of brooks, and a 


DEM MUTHIGEN HILFT GOTT 


IOI 


slender foot-bridge with a broken hand-rail, which spanned a 
brawling stream, which, he always thought, ran as if it fancied 
the Scarthin could not get along without it. 

Balthasar had been less occupied with his thoughts than with 
his sensations. He was immersed in a dreamy element of un- 
reality. Oddly enough, however, the moment he stood upon the 
common turnpike road, this medium of unreality vanished like a 
morning mist, and the outlines of things seemed strangely clear 
and hard. 

“ Jano, what is it you wish me to do ? We are nearly there, ” 
he said, with the air of a man just awakened from sleep. 

“You must get Mr. Boden’s consent, of course,” answered 
Janoca, smiling. 

“Then that is all, is it?” 

“ No, not quite. The next thing is to get the lady of the 
mill to consent.” 

“ To-day ? ” 

“Yes, if possible.” 

“Ah! then you had better go on alone, and let them know I 
am coming next week, or — next year. I am going home,” said 
Balthasar, turning round as he spoke. 

Janoca’s dark eyes opened wide with astonishment. “Ido 
not understand you,” she said, quietly. And in truth she did 
not. She did not know that her pliant subject had the making 
of a rebel in him. But he had, and just now he showed it. 

“ Issachar, being an ass, crouched between two burdens. I 
don’t mind being a green twig, or even an animated corpse, 
but I draw the line at an ass. I do not feel that it is in my 
line, quite.” 

“If you will speak plain English, brother, my dull wits will 
perhaps be equal to your meaning.” This with a stately grav- 
ity of tone and manner. 

“Well, I mean this: I will attempt the lady or the gentleman 
to-day, whichever you say, but not both in one day. To stand 
such burdens I had need be a great oak, not a green twig.” 

Janoca not infrequently had her suspicions that Balthasar 
surreptitiously dealt in gentle irony and innocent malice. She 
would have been grieved had she been sure about it; but she 
was not sure. Indeed, she secretly flattered herself that she 
alone was conscious of the saline quality that ofttimes showed 
itself in her brother’s speech. Thus the occasion of a wound 
was transformed into the pleasant tingling of self-complacency. 
And now, as he dropped that phrase, a green twig, she felt as 
though a pin had pricked her. She gave Balthasar a quick 
glance, but his face, as usual, gave no clew to his meaning. 


102 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“ I have no desire to overweight you, Balthasar. I am anx- 
ious only to save time. But, after all, it is your affair, not 
mine; and you must choose your own method of accomplishing 
it. Suppose you try the miller to-day, and leave the other 
until to-morrow ? ” she said, as they went on. 

“Week. I shall need a clear seven days' rest to recuperate. 
Well, it is a bargain. I try the miller only to-day. If they 
are both present you will take the lady in tow. If only the 
lady is to be seen I do no work on the Sabbath day. I wish 
her good-day and retire. Nay, I will hear no objection. To- 
day it is the miller, and the miller only. Hallo! if she isn't 
there by the door! " exclaimed Balthasar, as they rounded the 
rick-yard and faced the house. 

“And a very pretty, genteel figure she makes,” observed 
Janoca, quickening her pace as if she thought there was some 
danger of Balthasar suddenly retreating. 

Ruth came forward to meet them, her color a little height- 
ened by surprise. 

“You know us, my dear, of course. I am Janoca Phythian, 
and this is my brother,” said Janoca, putting on her sweetest 
smile. 

“ Oh, yes, I know you very well. I have often seen you at 
church,” answered Ruth, taking Janoca’s proffered hand. 
Then her eyes rested upon the face of “ Gentleman ” Phythian, 
the little monster of legal lore who veiled his despotic temper- 
ament with the most engaging urbanity. Years agone, as a 
child, she had dreamed about him; and in her dreams he had 
mingled, not incongruously, with the figures of Bluebeard and 
Red Ridinghood’s ironical wolf. And though the mantle of 
mystery which her young imagination had woven for him had 
long since been, not worn out so much as folded up and put 
away, with many other strange and fond costumes and trap- 
pings, into some dim attic of memory, Balthasar Phythian had 
not yet taken rank among ordinary men in her eyes. The 
touch of her imagination was still upon him, and in virtue 
thereof he was not as other men. Never before had she been 
so close to him or looked into his eyes. She looked at him so 
intently that Balthasar wondered if she could read her destiny 
in his eyes. He raised his hat and made her one of his best 
bows — and not a dozen men in England knew the art and mys- 
tery of a bow better than he did. Then Ruth dropped her 
eyes, embarrassed, greatly startled, at her own fearlessness. 
Would he think her bold? The color burned hot in her cheeks. 
Balthasar saw and understood, and was glad, though he was 
sorry for her. 


DEM MUTHJGEN HILFT GQTT 


103 


Said Janoca, who also had the art of divination, “ My brother 
would like to see your father for awhile. Is he within?” 

“Yes. Will you come forward, please?” said Ruth. She 
was for sending them round through the garden to the front 
door, while she went in through the kitchen to open it. 

But Janoca said, “If your kitchep, my dear, is as sweet and 
fresh as mine, it is fit for a duchess to enter. We will go with 
you.” 

“I have only Jane to help me, Miss Phythian, while you 
have three or four servants,” said Ruth. 

“That is true; but the Chase is a large house, and this is a 
small one. Are you the fine lady, my dear; or do you help 
Jane at all with the work?” 

“Jane does the heavy work, and what I may call the dirty 
work. But that leaves me plenty to do, Miss Phythian,” an- 
swered Ruth. 

Balthasar, watching her closely, saw the color rise faintly, 
and a beautiful dignity in the carriage of her head develop 
itself in a flash. 

“ I am glad to hear it. It is the only way in which a woman, 
be she high or low, can become a good housewife. And, my 
dear, let me tell you a secret — good housewifery can do more 
for the world than all the theology and the politics in creation. 
Marry a revolutionist to a first-rate housewife, and he will 
become transformed into the image of a sleek optimist. At 
the bottom of all hardness of heart, fanaticism, insanity, privy 
conspiracy, and rebellion is — bad housewifery.” 

Janoca never lectured or declaimed, much less ranted. She 
uncoiled her womanly doctrine as naturally and nimbly as a 
spider its web. Ruth liked the doctrine well; somehow it left 
the taste of honey in her mouth. She liked, also, the voice in 
which it was uttered — so soft, so cultivated, so full of what 
sounded like the melody, the incommunicable and inimitable 
melody, of the soul unseen. She looked at Balthasar to see how 
he took it; and with a smile visible in his eyes only, he said: 

“ You know, Miss Boden, we all admire most our own peculiar 
excellence. If we didn’t, we should have very little excuse 
for being so narrow in sympathy and so lop-sided in virtue.” 

“Thank you, brother, for your left-handed compliment. I 
would rather distribute my excellence over my whole being, I 
grant you, and wear it — as some gentlemen do their vices — 
like a skin. But failing that, I will, if need be, carry my 
excellence as Mr. Punch carries his hump. Who, I should like 
to know, would now care to see Mr. Punch with a straight 
back ? ” 


104 THE blacksmith of voe 

“Turn the gentleman to the wall, and he would make a first 
rate hat-stand. By your leave, Jano, men shall not turn my 
virtues into pegs on which to hang their greasy caps.” 

“And by your leave, brother, that is about all that our best 
virtues are fit for.” 

“Ah! well, when you grow humble, it ill becomes me to 
wax proud. The green twig has now become a hat-stand! 
Miss Boden, are you in need of such a piece of furniture? It 
will be sold cheaply, I assure you,” said Balthasar, with com- 
ical gravity. 

“I am not fond of second-hand furniture, sir,” answered 
Ruth, laughing at her own daring. 

“Very well said, my dear, very well said. Brother, that 
was a light shaft, but well sped. Confess it, now,” said Janoca. 

“ My self-esteem has had one of its two eyes put out. If 
she would dub me old and rickety, I should be led home dark 
— dark, but happy, Jano,” replied Balthasar, with a meaning 
that lurked not in his words, but in his tone. 

Janoca understood him perfectly. “ I think we had better 
go in,” she said, taking Ruth’s hand in her own. They went 
in, followed by — the piece of second-hand furniture. The 
kitchen was fleckless; so also was the large, old living-room, 
with its massive oak beams overhead and great open fire-place. 
A study in the antique was this room, thought Balthasar, and 
much he would have liked to spend some time in it. But the 
womenfolk passed through it without stopping, and so came 
to the best room of the house, into which Balthasar followed 
them. This was a modern room, and well furnished and, 
thought Balthasar, utterly commonplace and contemptible 
beside the piece of quaint antiquity adjoining. There he had 
caught sight of a lovely old spinning-wheel standing in the 
corner by the black oak clock-case. Here his eyes rested upon 
a smart piano of newest make. Spinster versus pianist. Bal- 
thasar’s sympathy and preference inclined toward the elder 
figure. The image was richer in every tone of true worth. 
Yet she, the living pianist, was not wanting in tokens of true 
worth. Somehow she seemed full worthy even to sit at the 
wheel and work the work of the good women of old time. So 
thought Balthasar, as he stood back and held open the door 
for her to pass out. She smiled, and bowed her thanks with 
lovely grace and almost queenly graciousness. 

“A miller’s daughter and a piano-player! She ought to be 
a young countess. Young Abel Boden, the blacksmith, you 
know, looks like an inspired Italian artist, I often think. 
And here is another piece of irony incarnate. A girl who 


DEM MUTHIGEN HILFT GOTT 


I0 5 

ought to be a showy, shallow, piano-strumming hoyden has 
the grace of a Penelope and the sense of a — a — a — Ah! I don’t 
think any woman was ever famous for sense, was she, Jano?” 

“I am glad you think so well of her,” remarked Janoca, 
ignoring her brother’s banter. Then she added sapiently, 
“ You may be inclined to think she is perfection now. It is 
the way with you impulsive men. But, take my word for it, 
she is not anything of the kind. If she were, she would be 
too good ” 

“ For you to care for her as a sister-in-law, eh ? ” interpolated 
Balthasar. 

“Yes, if you like it better so. I am your sister, you know. 
I do not believe in your perfect women. There is no salt to 

them. As pieces of imagination they are inferior even to 
angels. And only a third-rate poet would now dabble with 
angels.” 

“ I think women are, as you say, inferior to angels in one 
respect — they marry and are given in marriage. In that respect 
I think the angelic custom is the better. O Jano, Jano! do 
you realize what you have brought me here to do? ” 

“I would rather ask, brother, do you realize what you have 
to do ? ” 

“No, thank heaven, I don’t quite! If I did I should feel 
like a cipher with the rim knocked off.” 

“Tut! tut! do not be a coward! Dem Muthigen hilft Gott /” 

“Cold comfort, that, Jano! Der muthige Mann can help 
himself, while such as I need a battalion of angels at their 
back. I think we had better order a couple of sacks of flour 
and get away home again.” 

“We don’t usually buy flour on Sunday. If our father had 
been like his son, I fear our mother would have died a spinster.” 

“I wish to goodness he had married somebody else; and 

then, whoever I might have been, I should not have been 
myself.” 

“What in the world will you say next? Before I forget, 
brother, do not forget to remind Mr. Boden that it is a Phythian 
— a Phythian of Cottersley — who seeks the hand of his daugh- 
ter in marriage.” 

“ Why, certainly. He knows I am Balthasar Phythian, 
without me telling him.” 

“You know what I mean, brother. With people like him, 
blood ” 

Just then the door opened and the miller came in, with a 
face like the rising sun. He was a shy and awkward man with 
his betters, and especially in the presence of ladies. He stood 


o 6 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


now like a bashful boy “of hugy bulk,” and said, “Good-day 
to you, ma’am, and to you, sir.” 

“ My father-in-law ! ” mentally ejaculated Balthasar. “ Glad 
Penelope is not by. He would shame her.” 

Meanwhile Janoca, with the deft art of which she was 
an accomplished mistress, was bringing back the truant self- 
possession of the miller, and setting his wits upon their 
feet again. A few words, a few tones, a few muscular move- 
ments, a few strange passes of the soul, and the subtile work 
was done. How it was done was a secret hidden in the deep- 
est recesses of her spiritual organization. When she was so 
minded, Janoca, being a woman, had an infinite capacity for 
irritating. But her normal influence was soothing; and when 
her will became engaged she could work upon one’s spirit like 
soft rain upon the heaving waters. 

For some minutes the talking was monopolized by Janoca, 
while Balthasar dreamed and the miller sat listening, assent- 
ing, and inwardly wondering what it all meant, and how it 
came about that some folk seemed to be born with their insides 
full of words, while others had to catch them flying, as bats 
belated moths. Presently Ruth came into the room, whereupon 
Janoca rose and said: 

“ Come and show me your quaint old garden, my dear. I 
want to have a talk with you.” And together they left the 
room. 

Now was Balthasar’s hour upon him. He came out of his 
dream and fixed his glance steadily upon the miller in silence. 
The miller bore it bravely for a time, then he got restless. 

“It’s mighty strange what talking machines some folks be,” 
he said finally, with an effort. 

“You are thinking of my sister? I tell her sometimes that 
she has the words and I have the ideas; and if we could 
exchange half of our stock-in-trade it would be a great 
advantage.” 

“Nay, but she’s a powerful pretty talker. I could have sat 
an hour longer listening to her sweet voice.” 

“You are a widower, are you not?” asked Balthasar sud- 
denly, as the thought struck him — why should not the miller 
marry Janoca? 

“Yes, sir, many a long year. But I don’t say I wouldn’t 
marry again, if the right woman came along.” 

“Dear me! But I suppose one can get accustomed to any- 
thing. Now I am a bachelor, as you know, Mr. Boden; and 
could you, with your experience of matrimony, recommend me 
to try it ? ” 


DEM MUTHIGEN HILFT GOTT 


107 


The miller broke out into a hearty laugh — a rare thing with 
him nowadays. 

“ Happen I could, sir. It’s good for the temper, anyway. 
It tries it,” he answered, laconically. 

“The quality of my temper I know; it has been tried so 
often. What else is matrimony good for?” 

“ Good for the purse. It empties it, and so saves it from 
wearing out so soon, eh ? ” 

“ I understand. Proceed, please.” 

“To cap all, it’s good for life, sir. It shortens it,” said 
the miller, with a touch of grim humor. 

“Three most excellent points. You have a daughter, Penel- 
ope?” 

“ It is Ruth you mean, sir.” 

“You know her as Ruth. To me she is Penelope. She 
needs a husband. A girl should always marry young — and 
such a girl! I need a wife. Strictly speaking it is not a wife 
I need, but a child, an heir. And our social arrangements are 
so clumsy that I cannot get the rose without the thorn. I 
must have the flower, and hence the necessity of getting a fit 
and proper tree to bear it. Should you have any objection, 
Mr. Boden, to me paying my addresses to your daughter, Miss 
Penelope ? ” 

If the slender gentleman in front of him had been suddenly 
transformed into a faun with pointed ears and goatish hoofs 
the miller could hardly have been more astonished than he was 
at his words. He brought his hands down upon his knees with 
a slap, and stared at Balthasar incredulously. “ Happen I 
don’t understand you aright, sir. Be it that you want to court 
my Ruth?” he said, as though he could not believe his own 
ears. 

“Yes; in the vernacular, that is my meaning.” 

“Well, well, well! That beats anything I ever heard of! 
It’s nation strange, sir.” 

“ What is strange ? ” 

“That a gentleman of your quality should take a liking to 
my Ruth. Not but what she’s a proper girl enough — clean 
and handy, and — and a bit of the lady in her. But you’re a 
Phythian, sir.” 

“ Yes, Balthasar Phythian is my name. And I suppose there 
has been a Balthasar Phythian in direct line now for — well, I 
think we generally prefer to start with the reign of Henry VIII. 
In that reign — which was a goodly time for a shrewd man 
employed in his Majesty’s service— my ancestor, by kingly 
favor, carved out for himself a snug estate from the confiscated 


108 THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 

abbey lands of Cottersley. His father, I believe, was also 
Balthasar. But he was a rusty, dusty, devil-driven old scriv- 
ener; and I do not suppose the thoroughbred Phythians of 
Cottersley would have recognized him for an instant, if it had 
not been necessary to find a father for his son. In all of which 
matters my sister is well posted; and she will entertain you by 
the hour, if ever you have any time to waste. For myself, Mr. 
Boden, I am more interested in hearing your answer to my 
question.” For awhile the miller sat thinking, ever and anon 
breaking the silence with a “Well, well, well!” or a “Who’d 
have thought it?” or a “Beats anything I ever heard.” Bal- 
thasar, finding the time to drag, fell a-dreaming. 

“ Might I make bold to ask, do you love Ruth, sir?” 

Balthasar opened his eyes and looked up, and said quickly, 
“Oh, dear, no! Not in the least. Hei! how very thoughtless 
of me! Yet the truth is the truth. And, after all, it does not 
matter much. A man must love his wife, of course. That is 
the anodyne of matrimony. But I do not know that it is any- 
where written that a man must love his — his — in the vernacular 
— sweetheart. I can see that there is no objection to his doing 
so, but it is not by commandment. Now Miss Penelope is not 
even my — sweetheart. And I submit, Mr. Boden, that neither 
law nor gospel contains a hint that a man, a virtuous man, 
should love a charming girl who is neither sweetheart nor wife.” 

“Well, that’s a queer notion, and no mistake. Happen 
there’s sense in it, though, when you get o’ th’ inside. But 
it’s a nut, sir, and must be cracked before you get at the meat. 
You wouldn’t ask to marry her without loving her a bit, sir, 
would you ? ” 

“ I am sure I don’t know. On the spur of the moment, how- 
ever, I think I may say that I would. But it is a matter on 
which I should be entirely guided by Jano. Jano is my sister, 
you know.” 

At this the miller looked grave and shook his head. “ Where 
there’s love on both sides marriage isn’t all cakes and ale, sir; 
and without it, the Lord only knows what it’s like,” he said, 
after a pause. 

“But if the lady does not mind, why should you?” 

“ Happen as Ruth wouldn’t have you, sir, if you didn’t love 
her.” 

“That would be awkward, I admit. I don’t love her now, 
however, and what would be the use of saying I did ? Suppose 
we ” 

“ Asking your pardon, Mr. Phythian, but how would you 
court her if you didn’t make love to her?” 


DEM MUTHIGEN HILFT GOTT 


109 

“ I do not know, I am sure. But one cannot make bricks 
without straw, and I have no straw. If I could not make love 
I should have to try and make something else that she would 
like as well. Really, I think my sister ought to settle the 
difficulty. I should like to see her puzzled a bit.” 

“ Then shall we put that by for a while ? ” 

“With the greatest pleasure in the world, my dear sir. Let 
me see; I have already dwelt, as per order, on the fact that it 
is ‘a Phythian — Phythian of Cottersley — who seeks the hand 
of your daughter in marriage. ’ ” 

“Yes, sir, and I’m mighty proud of it, too. The Phythians, 
as everybody knows, have got good blood in their veins, and 
lots of good money to back it up. I’d as soon she married 
you, sir, as the squire himself, damn him! ” Quite impromptu 
was the expletive, and startled the miller almost as much as it 
did Balthasar. 

“Goodness me! what a mercy you are not the Almighty! ” 
ejaculated Balthasar. 

“ I ask your pardon, sir. I didn’t know it was so nigh my 
tongue’s end, or I’d have swallowed it,” said the miller, with 
some confusion of face. 

“Ah! then I am glad you dropped it. There is such a thing 
as indigestion of the soul, and swallowed curses are apt to 
bring it on. Surely the squire is one of the last men deserving 
of a curse.” 

“ Happen he is, but he’s gone and got the better on me anent 
that strip of land by the Scarthin, and — Lord, sir, if I didn’t 
swear it out now and then, I should choke! ” 

“What! the Jack Wragg land that you and Mr. Sims fought 
for at the sale? ” 

“ The very same, sir. That new blacksmith fellow has gone 
and sold it to him for just what he gave for it.” 

“Has he really? At any rate, he has paid a fancy price 
for it.” 

“ He’d have paid double, and jumped at it. And so would 
I, rather than he should have had it now. And to think, sir, 
that villain Kneebone as good as promised to let me have it! ” 

“Ah! I see now why he is a villain. He has favored your 
rival. If that does not prove a man a villain I should like to 
know what would! ” 

“ So say I, sir.” 

“ By the by, talking of blacksmiths reminds me, is he keep- 
ing on that naturalist nephew of yours?” 

“Yes,” growled the miller. 

“I am glad to hear it. What with his beautiful Italian face 


no 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


and his scientific proclivities, he makes quite a picturesque 
figure for a village blacksmith. I understand you have never 
heard anything of his father from the day he disappeared ? ” 

‘‘That is so,” answered the miller, and involuntarily he put 
his hand to his nether lip. The undying smart was still there. 
It was evident that he had no desire to pursue the subject, for 
he said quite abruptly, “I’m not a poor man, Mr. Phythian. ” 
Balthasar looked surprised at the irrelevant remark, but said 
nothing. The miller seemed uneasy at this, and moved about 
in his chair. At last he said, “ If she marries to my fancy I’ll 
give her from five to ten thousand pounds down. And as 
much, happen, when I die.” 

“Well, the man who despises money is a fool, be he bachelor 
or bridegroom.” 

“ That’s marrow truth, let who will deny it. I don’t want, 
though, to pour my money into an empty box. Money to 
money, say I, and then it’ll breed well. But if she goes con- 
trarious to me she’ll just get one shilling of my money, neither 
more nor less.” 

“ It is all very well to say that before your daughter is mar- 
ried. It is conducive to reflection on the part of a sensible 
girl. But I should hope that when the thing was done, and 
could not be undone, you would not bite your thumb at the 
inevitable in that way.” 

“Wouldn’t I, though! If she makes her bed she shall lie 
on it.” 

“ That is all the more reason, then, that I should know at 
the start, for her sake, whether or not you are favorable to my 
suit,” said Balthasar. 

At this the miller put on his gravest expression of counte- 
nance, and did his best to look as though he were seriously 
considering the matter; but the effort was too great, and in a 
little while his face broke out into a broad smile as the strong, 
proud, laughing joy of his heart rose within him like a tide. 
His eyes grew bright and his face red as he smote his open palm 
with his right fist, exclaiming, “Why, it beats my best dream 
out and out! Mrs. Balthasar Phythian of the Chase! Sounds 
like poetry! Ay, you may have her, sir, and proud I am to be 
her father. Shall I call her in and tell her it’s all arranged?” 

Balthasar sprang to his feet as the miller rose, and said, 
“ My dear sir, stop! Not for the world! A bargain is a bar- 
gain. I will see Miss Penelope this day week. I will go now 
and find Jano. Good-day, Mr. Boden. Much obliged.” 

He went out quickly, closed the door behind him, and catch- 
ing sight of the key in the lock he quietly turned it. 


CHAPTER XIII 


IN A GREEN BOWER 

Left alone, and all unconscious that he was a prisoner in 
his own house, the miller reseated himself and soon became 
lost in thought. He rehearsed again and again the scene he 
had just gone through with Balthasar Phythian, until by sheer 
dint of repetition the whole thing lost every vestige of reality, 
and took on the semblance of a dream. And yet it was no 
dream; for had not Ruth roused him from his regular Sunday 
afternoon sleep with the surprising remark that Mr. and Miss 
Phythian were downstairs, waiting to see him in the parlor? 
How else came he to be in the parlor, instead of on his bed ? 

Yet it was passing strange that “ Gentleman ” Phythian, 
whom everybody counted a confirmed bachelor, should have 
taken a fancy to his Ruth. Questionless, the girl had got it 
in her to carry her head higher than was warranted by her fore- 
bears. And for the same, he had rated her more than once, 
and cast clumsy sarcasms in her face, and broadly hinted that 
the time would come, as it always came for the likes of her, 
when a clownish ploughman would be reckoned a godsend. 
But even he would not be on hand, and she would shrivel into 
a sere and sour old maid. It was not so to be, it seemed; 
nathless it might have been so. And who but a born idiot 
would have counted on a gentleman wanting to marry her? 
Fancy Ruth the wife of Balthasar Phythian! the sister-in-law 
of Miss Phythian! ! The mistress of the Chase! ! ! Oh, it 
was a sweet dream, a strange dream, a wondrous dream! It 
teemed with multitudinous images full of enchantment, which 
began to move to and fro in rhythmic order, to the sound of 
interior music sweet as the sackbut, the psaltery, and the harp, 
intermingled with the soft melody of the Scarthin that came 
up from the vale below. His eyes closed, his head dropped, 
he snored for a short time most unpoetically ; then he fell to 
breathing softly, slowly, and deeply. And sleeping he dreamed 
the same dream, only it was interwoven through and through 
with images of horror and terror. Ruth grew into a countess 
dressed in purple velvet, who pulled out of her pocket a golden 


I 12 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


crown. She would have shown him how she looked with it 
upon her head, but that he had to leave her suddenly and fly, 
to escape a dread figure in black and red who was ever pursu- 
ing him. It was the figure of Abel, his brother; but it was 
not Abel. Men whispered that it was the figure of Justice, 
and from its attire it was in search of a murderer. Yet he hid 
and it passed by, and Ruth, the countess, once more appeared, 
with the purple velvet gown and the crown in her pocket; and 
— the figure in black and red came also! And still the miller 
slept on. 

Meanwhile the Phythians had gone. Janoca had seemed in 
no hurry to leave. She had discussed vegetables with Ruth, 
and butter-making, and flower-growing, and had just got fairly 
started on the ever-sweet theme of the bees, when Balthasar 
came upon the scene. To Ruth he seemed as composed as an 
oyster; but Janoca, being versed in subtile signs, perceived 
that he was excited. Ordinarily his mental condition would 
have furnished no sufficient reason in Janoca’s eyes why the 
bees should not have had full justice done them; but just then 
her curiosity was a-tiptoe. So she dropped the bees as though 
they had stung her, and with a few pretty sentences, that came 
from her lips as naturally as honey from a hive, she took her 
departure. 

Ruth accompanied them to the lane; then she came back 
and went into the garden at the back of the house, and sat on 
a rustic bench in a little ivy-covered bower, with the warm 
April sun in her eyes. It was a late spring, and nature had 
done next to nothing as yet toward decking herself in the soft 
delicacies of color. But there was, nevertheless, a kind of 
still rapture to be drunk from the yellow and purple crocuses, 
the chaste snowdrops, the flowering whiterock, and the tender 
green leaves and ruby-red stalks of the greatly daring and 
frost-defying rhubarb. And Ruth, being a true child of nature, 
found herself thirsty, and gladly drank of the quiet delight. 
With the delicate scent of the whiterock mingled, like another 
perfume of equal sweetness, the memory of Miss Phythian. 
Her sweet and stately manner, that so well matched the nobil- 
ity of her countenance and the inimitable charm of her voice, 
had struck Ruth like a sudden flood of rich and rare music. 

Twelve months earlier she had gone for the first time through 
the duke’s palace, and had therein seen the mellow painting 
of a certain countess of ineffable loveliness. For weeks and 
months afterward the picture haunted her, and bred in her a 
wild longing, a delicious despair. Janoca Phythian had noth- 
ing of the magic beauty of the dead lady, but she had that 


IN A GREEN BOWER 


XI 3 

which was beauty’s beauty, the spell and sorcery of manner 
and voice. Moreover, she was alive, and had stood face to 
face with Ruth, and had talked of fowls and flowers and fruits, 
of the art and mystery of making preserves that would keep, 
and butter that her grandmother would have recognized with- 
out a label. 

There was a certain pine-tree in the woods that had been 
blown down by a heavy wind a few seasons back. The base of 
its trunk was a huge mass of uptorn clay held together by a 
network of roots. When the summer sun was dipping in the 
west, its red lights fell straight upon the roots of the fallen 
tree, and burned a mysterious crimson splendor into the mass 
of imprisoned clay. More than once Ruth had stood at a dis- 
tance and looked on with feelings akin to his who looked upon 
the bush burning yet unconsumed. Somehow it seemed to her 
just now that everything Janoca had touched upon had become 
transfigured like the pine-root. The touch, the enchanting 
touch, of ladyhood was upon them. And what is there of base 
that will not become noble, or mean that will not wax splendid, 
of vulgar that will not grow refined, of commonplace that will 
not burn with the beauty of the divinely rare, under the touch 
of ladyhood ? Be it what it may, it is fit only to be cast out 
and trodden under foot of men. 

Suddenly Ruth heard a footstep, and looking up beheld 
Violet Chalk. She was a woman of about eight-and-twenty, 
in height and build much resembling Ruth herself; she was a 
handsome woman, with bright color in her cheeks, laughing 
brown eyes, and full red lips. She looked brimful of healthy 
animal life and passion, and in her maiden days had wrought 
sad havoc in the hearts of the young men of Voe and of more 
than one neighboring hamlet. Yet, after all, she had gone 
and thrown herself away upon Silas Chalk, one of the squire’s 
under-keepers — a thin-faced fellow, surly when sober and quar- 
relsome when drunk, and jealous up to the hilt. Everybody 
looked to see Violet lose her bright and warm if somewhat 
coarse beauty, and gay jaunty manner, within a year of her 
wedding-day; but over two years had now gone by, and still 
she was neither pale nor sad, but brave and handsome as ever. 
If she suffered, she was determined the world should be 
none the wiser. And with the instinct of courage and defiance 
she seldom left the house until the looking-glass informed her 
that every trace of private sorrow was veiled. Her sole con- 
fidant was Ruth, between whom and herself there existed a 
peculiar intimacy. From the time when Ruth was two years old, 
until she was married, Violet had been her nurse, her playmate, 
8 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


114 

her guardian, her worshipper, her friend and counsellor. She 
had kept the miller’s house for some years, after the death of 
his wife, and had trained Ruth to be the capital housewife she 
was. Only Ruth knew what the matrimonial tapestry of Vio- 
let’s life really was, upon its seamy side. And only Violet 
knew upon what bough Ruth had hung her heart’s nest. In 
this exchange of joy and sorrow, the equality must needs have 
been marred but for the really fine sympathy that characterized 
both the woman and the girl. 

“ I saw you had company, Miss Ruth, when I came, so I sat 
down by one of the ricks, and I’m not sure I didn’t almost fall 
asleep. I do so love the sunshine,” said Violet, standing in 
front of Ruth. 

“Yes, I knew that before to-day, Violet; and so do I. But 
I don’t think I love it so much by itself as when I see it and 
feel it working itself into the earth. I am afraid I am not very 
heavenly-minded. It is the earth I love, more than the sky or 
the sun — the dear, sweet, beautiful earth!” exclaimed Ruth, 
with the poetic fervor of all true, strong love. 

“Yes, you are fit to be his lady-love. And you will make a 
bonnie pair some day, both of you a bit mad on the ‘dear, 
sweet, beautiful earth.’ But you will grow wiser when you 
are married, both of you.” 

“I hope so, Violet. It would be sad if we didn’t,” said 
Ruth, with a blush. 

“Do you know, I have been thinking, Miss Ruth, you might 
as well almost marry a gamekeeper as him.” 

“Violet, for shame! What do you mean?” 

“Well, then, a poacher, if you won’t have gamekeeper. 
They are much of a muchness, happen.” 

“You mean that he is out at night so much? Oh, he would 
give that up, or I could go with him.” » 

Violet Chalk gave a short laugh, full and ringing and melo- 
dious. It was a laugh that went with her constitution, and 
was full of signification for a psychologist. Such power of 
laughter stood to trouble and sorrow much as a dog’s power of 
shaking himself stood to water. 

“That would last till the honeymoon grew full, and no 
longer. If I had the saying of ‘Yes’ again, I would say ‘No’ 
to the best man as ever wore shoe-leather, if he had to turn out 
o’ nights. But there! where’s Jane ? ” 

“ She has not come back from church yet.” 

“And the miller?” 

“ I expect he has gone to lie down again. I think I will step 
in and see,” answered Ruth, rising and going toward the house. 


IN A GREEN BOWER 


^5 

“ I have got something to tell you, Miss Ruth; but we will 
talk in the house, if you like,” said Violet Chalk, as she trip- 
ped along at the heels of the proud-stepping girl whom she 
still mentally acknowledged as mistress. 

At one end of the house there were three or four stone steps, 
which Ruth descended. Through a small round hole in an old 
worm-eaten door she thrust two of her long and lovely white 
fingers, and shooting back a wooden bolt, opened the door and 
entered that paradise of romance, luxury, and sweetness — an 
old-fashioned dairy. The roughly-built stone walls were white 
as the driven snow, the red-tiled floor flecklessly clean. The 
temperature was low, and the air fresh and sweet as the moor- 
breeze. There stood metal creaming-pans, broad and long, 
whose surfaces were mighty lakes of butyraceous scum, of un- 
known depth. On blue-gray slabs of stone, all round the room, 
stood huge brown earthenware pots with purple ears, full of 
the same divine liquor in half a-dozen stages of sweetness. 
Through the open door the sun stole in coyly for a few feet 
and lay on the spotless crimson floor, as if amazed to find such 
delicate freshness and purity in a place that seemed sacred to 
the shades. Another moment and the stealthy intruder was 
thrust out by the closing of the door in his face, and left lying 
on the green old bricks and the friendly steps of well-worn 
grit. These knew him well enough, and were glad of his com- 
pany, though they generally hailed him as a stranger, seeing 
that though he claimed to pass that way daily, he had what 
seemed an ill-bred trick of often hiding his face. 

Leaving the dairy, Ruth ascended a flight of steps that led 
into' a passage, dim and narrow, that lay between the antique 
living-room and the parlor wherein the miller sat sleeping. 
The best room being but seldom used, it was customary to 
keep the door locked. So when Ruth tried the door and found 
it locked, with the key as usual on the outside, she naturally 
concluded that her father was not there. The living-room was 
empty, but the miller’s Sunday hard-head was on its proper 
hook, and his stick of knotted ash rested against the clock-case 
in the corner. Evidently the miller had decided to finish his 
Sunday nap, in proper orthodox fashion, in his own broad bed, 
four-posted and tent-like. Ruth stepped to the open stairs door 
and gently closed it; then she came and stood at the entrance 
of the passage. 

“ He doesn’t mean to let his visitors lose him his regular 
Sunday sleep, it seems,” remarked Violet Chalk, who knew 
the ways of the miller and his household to the smallest 
details. 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


Il6 

“Yet he was fast asleep when they came. Violet, why can- 
not I b« like Miss Phythian?” 

“An old maid? Happen because somebody won’t let you. 
And I don’t think you are cut out for that kind of life either, 
Miss Ruth.” 

“You foolish thing! I didn’t mean that, of course. Iam 
thinking that maidenhood and marriage have very little to do 
with it. Somehow the memory of her is like that of a sweet 
old song — like one of the songs of Zion to those who sat by 
the rivers of Babylon. She is a noble woman, I am sure.” 

“ I fancy I like the gentleman better than the lady. But 
then, happen I commonly do. It’s the way with most of the 
women, I’m thinking.” 

“ Perhaps to their sorrow, Violet. Yes, I like Mr. Phythian; 
he is — but you have something to tell me?” 

“Oh, it will keep. It’s only a little message from my 
lord.” 

“O Violet! and you haven’t told me yet! Tell me at 
once ! ” 

“ He wanted to know if you could meet him this evening 
between seven and eight in the King’s Lot?” 

A glad answer sprang to her lips, but a true and delicate 
instinct ckecked its utterance. A wave of splendid color 
ebbed and flowed in her face as she stood in the attitude of 
reflection. “Yes,” she said, quietly, “I think I can, between 
half-past seven and eight. Shall you see him again?” 

Violet Chalk looked at the clock and said, smiling, “ In ten 
minutes he will be in the plantation, if he isn’t there now.” 

“ O Violet ! dare I, just for a minute ? ” 

“Why not? Your father won’t be down for an hour yet. I 
will stay here, in case he should come down, if you like, Miss 
Ruth.” 

Just then there was a low hum of voices, and going to the 
window Ruth beheld Jane standing by the gate that gave into 
the lane, in conversation with her lover. “No, there is Jane, 
so you need not stay, thank you. And I shall not need you in 
the plantation either,” said Ruth, as they left the house. 

The two lovers had instinctively sought the momentary shel- 
ter of a rick ere they parted. So that Ruth came upon them 
almost unawares. The girl looked extremely innocent, but the 
man doffed his cap, wriggled his legs as if trying to put them into 
his pockets, and waxed red in the face. Said Ruth, “I shall 
be back in a little while, Jane. Look after the house, and 
when you go in take care not to waken your master. He is 


IN A GREEN BOWER 


117 

asleep in his room.” Then she passed on and down the lane 
with Violet Chalk, while Jane remained with her lover beside 
the rick. . . . 

Meanwhile Miller Boden had been having un mauvais quart 
d' heure. Awakened by Ruth trying the door, he stretched out 
his legs and inwardly thanked his stars that his nap had been 
comparatively sweet and refreshing. He had come to be con- 
tent with small mercies; he had composed a scale of compara- 
tive horrors, and not to awake with a start and in a sold sweat 
was to have a grand sleep! He was on the point of leaving 
the room when he heard the voices of Ruth and Violet Chalk 
within a few feet of the door near which he happened to be 
sitting. He had no thought of listening to their conversation, 
which he did not for a moment suppose would possess any 
attractions for him. But suddenly, with almost startling dis- 
tinctness, he caught the words of Violet Chalk, “An old maid? 
Happen because somebody won’t let you.” Thereat he pricked 
his ears, and bent sideways to listen. Presently he rose with 
infinite precaution from his chair, and with a cat’s tread went 
close to the door and bent his ear to the keyhole. There he 
remained, crouched and cramped, until he heard them go away 
out of the house. Then he straightened himself up, and his 
big red face could hardly be said to be black as thunder, seeing 
that it was still red. To his great disgust he was unable to 
hear more than snatches of the conversation — stray words and 
broken sentences only. There might have been a gusty wind 
blowing, the way their voices rose and fell and their tones 
changed. But though he had not heard much, he had heard 
enough to fill him with suspicion. Was it possible that Ruth 
had a secret lover? No; that was not like Ruth. And yet 
there was certainly a man in conversation, for he had caught 
caught Ruth’s inquiry, “Shall you see him again?” Who 
could it be ? 

The miller battered his brains to discover a likely beguiler 
among the men of Voe, but all to no purpose. There was not 
one whom he could think that Ruth would care for. Yes, there 
was one — one with a face and manner and individuality such 
as might beguile any girl who was not separated from him by 
a bridgeless gulf. Ruth in love with her cousin Abel ! The 
miller shuddered, scratched his lower lip, and mentally threw the 
idea, with a suppressed curse, into the limbo reserved for dam- 
nable ideas. Perhaps, after all, he was only making a mount- 
ain out of a mole-hill. He would keep his eyes a little more 
open, and hasten on the Phythian affair. Ah! there was juicy 


1 18 THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 

sweetness in that thought! In three short months Ruth might 
be the wife of Balthasar Phythian. Then it would be for her 
husband to look after her. 

The miller went to the door, tried it, turned the handle this 
way and that, shook it again and again, and finally bent down 
and peered into the crevice between the door and the jamb. It 
was locked! Then was his face a sight to see. It was a mag- 
nificent crimson, dappled with purple. She, Ruth — the hussy! 
— had actually locked him in! It was a confirmation of his 
worst suspicions; there was some deep plot in it. He was too 
wroth to swear, until he looked at the window; then he swore 
deep and loud. Had it been a modern window, with a sash, 
he would have been through it in no time; but it was one of 
your old-fashioned leaded windows, with diamond panes, open- 
ing in a small section that did not afford room for his head, to 
say nothing of his big frame. He pulled out of his pocket a 
large jack-knife, and spent several minutes trying to shoot 
back the lock; but he could not manage it. Then he knocked 
loudly on the door, and called out, “ Ruth! Jane! Ruth!” No 
one answered. Thereupon he sat down and did his best to 
play the philosopher; but it was hard work instead of play, as 
most folk find out when they make the endeavor. For a while 
his anger burned fiercely toward Ruth — a thing which rarely 
happened, for she was his all in all. Presently it occurred to 
him that if Ruth had locked the door, knowing him to be 
within, she would certainly have chosen some other spot than 
the passage in which to talk with Violet Chalk. Like a flash 
he saw that he had misjudged Ruth. This was no small relief 
to him; it took off a heavy load from his mind. 

The Phythian aspect of affairs recurred to him; his spirits 
began to rise; the humorous side of the situation showed itself 
in brief spells, like glimpses of a blue sky through sudden rifts 
in the clouds. But again a disquieting thought seized upon him. 
Why did Ruth choose the passage to talk in ? Was it because 
she thought he was upstairs and would be less likely to over- 
hear her? Turn it which way he would, this seemed to be the 
likeliest reason. But then he had already misjudged the girl 
once, and maybe if his wits were clearer, he would see that he 
was misjudging her again. He was so thinking when he heard 
some one in the living-room. He knocked loudly, and said, 
“Open the door.” Whereupon Jane, thinking only of robbers, 
and startled out of her love-sick wits, began to scream. 

“ Unlock the door, and don’t be an idiot! ” cried the miller, 
lustily. 


IN A GREEN BOWER 


II 9 

The girl recognized the voice of her master and cried, 
“Where be you, sir?” 

“Where? Why, here, in the best room, locked in like a 
prisoner.” 

Jane unlocked the door, and throwing it open gasped, “ Lord- 
a-mercy, master! what brings you locked in here?” 

“Your mistress, I suppose. I was asleep, and I dare say she 
thought I was upstairs.” 

“ She did that, for certain. She said as much when she went 
down the lane.” 

“ Well, you needn’t say anything to her about it when she 
comes back; happen it would trouble her a bit. I’ll have 
some tea as soon as you can get it ready.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


WEN GOTT BETRUGT, DER 1ST WOHL BETROGEN 

“ Good-day, Mr. Phythian, and I hope you are in good health, 
sir? I was a- wondering if you would come to-day, sir, after 
what you said last Sunday.” 

“ It has been a curious week, Mr. Boden. Some of the days 
have gone like hours, and some of the hours like days. Jano, 
my sister, has made light of my condition. I was to walk in 
the park at midnight and seek the sweet influences of the moon. 
She even advised me to turn poet of a sudden, and try the 
effect of a sonnet inscribed to ‘Penelope.’ But I did not come 
to talk with you. Is Miss Penelope within?” 

“Yes; she’s somewhere about, sir. Happen she’s in the 
bower in the back-garden.” 

“In the bower in the back-garden? That sounds quite 
pretty — much better than, ‘In the parlor playing the piano. ’ 
Miller, tell me, is the lady devoted to that instrument?” 

“Well, no, sir — not that I know on. You see, she’s fond of 
music, as she ought to be, for I paid a pretty penny to teach 
her; but she likes the organ, sir, better than the piano. I’d 
as lief have a hurdy-gurdy as either, as far as I’m concerned.” 

“Thank heaven for taste! — I mean hers, not yours, miller. 
Yours, if you will allow your prospective son-in-law to say so, 
is villainously bad. Musically, you deserve — I speak as your 
prospective son-in-law — to be damned. A piano is a weak in- 
strument, fit only for women of the weaker sort. Fancy a 
Miriam, to say nothing of a Moses, playing the piano! Now, 
an organ of proper dimensions has the melody and power and 
beauty of all other noble instruments combined. In the ear of 
a dying saint its soft ecstatic sweetness may form a fit prelude 
to the mighty music of seraphim and cherubim, of which the 
first notes are already breaking in upon his spirit, trembling 
and eager for its great flight; while its mellow thunder and 
proud tumultuous gladness are equal to the march of a trium- 
phant king at the head of a great host of veterans, seasoned 
with war and flushed with conquest. In the bower in the back- 
garden. No; don’t lead me — direct me. I will go to her 
alone. One word — does she expect me ? ” 


WEN GOTT BETRUGT, DER 1ST WOHL BETROGEN 12 1 

“I gave her a hint, sir.” 

“ She knows my errand, then ? ” 

“Happen she does, sir.” 

“I am glad she does. Round the corner there; thank you. 
Without doubt I shall easily find the ‘bower in the back-gar- 
den. ’ ” So saying, Balthasar Phythian left the miller in the 
courtyard and proceeded to the back-garden. It was a delight- 
ful old garden, especially in summer-time, full of currant-trees 
and gooseberry-bushes, beehives and sweet-smelling flowers, 
pear-trees, plum-trees, cherry-trees, and apple-trees, quaint 
and homely, that threw out their branches low down, as if to 
invite sweet-hearted people like themselves to sit upon them 
and gently sway themselves in the sunshine. There were box- 
hedges in the garden, and beautiful holly-trees. Ivy covered 
all the back of the house, except the casement windows, and 
had seized upon two large cherry-trees, and out of their 
spreading branches had built an evergreen arch, a shelter from 
sun and rain alike. There was a well in the centre of a tiny 
grass-plot, with chain and windlass. The woodwork, green 
with age, matched the low ring of stone in which the well 
stood, coated with the daintiest of mosses in all the shades of 
green and gray. The spring was late, but the daffodils had 
opened since last Sunday, and the thorn hedges had mysteri- 
ously covered themselves with bits of curled and crumpled 
bloom of tenderest green. The larks had also arrived, and 
just now one of those prime musicians was overhead, shedding 
a rain of music over many fields, himself hidden in the light. 
A little contemptible winged creature, the laborious bee, as 
Master Auceps styleth him, was out in full force with all his 
family; and though he could not compete with the divine ditty 
of the invisible songster, his lowly hum had an earth-charm 
all its own. 

Balthasar stood resting on his elbow against one of the trees, 
and took in the garden. Simple as it was, it had for him an 
unspeakable charm, a delicious attraction. There were in it 
health, sweet sanity, cool, serene, natural poetry and prose, 
miracle and law, divinest of ethics, and truest of religions — 
something, too, of the pathetic in its lowliness and modesty 
and low esteem. “In the bower in the back-garden! Fittest 
of all places in which to find one’s love! I wonder shall I find 
mine here? If not, I am apt to think it is hidden beyond all 
finding. I must try and find it — in her! I will remember that 
she loves the organ,” murmured Balthasar, apparently to a half- 
open daffodil in his hand. He moved forward slowly, halting 
every few steps to explore some mass of evergreen which 


122 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


looked like a masked arbor. At length, near the far end of 
the garden, he came quite unexpectedly upon a short, straight 
path covered with the white ground rock of the lead-mines. 
His glance followed this path to its termination, and then he 
halted. There was the ivy-covered bower, and within sat 
Ruth, with her head bent and a closed book on her lap. He 
waited for some moments, then he coughed; but the girl did 
not stir. She was fast asleep. 

“ She expected Balthasar Phythian — one of the Phythians 
of Cottersley — would wait upon her with an offer of his hand 
and fortune, and she is so excited that she — goes fast asleep ! 
She is evidently a girl of some originality. Shall I withdraw 
forever? Alas! Jano is a lioness in the way. Shall I scrawl 
my vows upon a leaf of my pocket-book and deposit them at her 
feet and retire? Alas! there are such things as vagrant winds 
and thievish jackdaws, and they have no sense of property. 
Yet it is cruel to wake her” — a cough — “outrageously cruel to 
wake a girl up simply to ask her to be one’s wife! ” — a louder 
cough — “yet one cannot propose to a girl when she is asleep.” 

Tiny insects with wonderful wings, the first of the season, 
were bobbing up and down in the sunshine, as if suspended 
from the sky by invisible elastic. One of these, more humor- 
ous or adventurous than its fellows, made a sudden leap into 
the jaws of death, and plunged madly down Balthasar’s throat. 
Now he began to cough in earnest and to some purpose. The 
blood came into his face, the tears into his eyes; while he 
scraped and rasped and roared to dislodge the “ wee beastie ” 
from his trachea. All thought of Ruth vanished, while he 
bent down with his hands on his knees and gave cacophonous 
battle with the intruder. The conflict ended, he raised himself 
erect, and feeling blindly for his handkerchief, brought it to 
his tearful eyes. 

“O Mr. Phythian! are you ill?” inquired a soft voice at 
his elbow. 

“Ha! you are awake at last, then, Miss Penelope,” said 
Balthasar. His voice seemed to tremble on the verge of a 
cough, and he held his handkerchief in front of his face as 
though he had been crying. 

Altogether, it was rather comical, thought Ruth. “Was I 
really asleep, then? I am quite ashamed you should have 
found me so. The sun was so warm, and Tennyson always 
puts me to sleep and gives me the sweetest of dreams,” said 
Ruth, a little timidly, but with sufficient self-possession to 
choose her words. She felt she owed so much of good-breeding 
to Mr. Phythian, of all men. 


WEN GOTT BETRUGT, DER 1ST WOHL BETROGEN 


123 


“ I am very glad you could sleep. I think I envied you. 
Are you fond of Tennyson?” said Balthasar, recovering his 
normal composure and stowing away the ridiculous handker- 
chief. 

“Yes; the little I have read of him makes me think I should 
like to read all he has written.” 

“ It is a blessed thing to be a Tennyson, to be able to write 
something that stirs the fancy and enriches the sentiment of 
every sweet girl and woman in the land. I bethink me that he 
says somewhere, ‘In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly 
turns to thoughts of love. ’ It is springtide now, Miss Penel- 
ope,” said Balthasar, in a low voice, while he felt quite pleased 
with his own fluency. 

The thing, after all, was not so dreadful, if it kept on as 
smoothly as it began. Indeed it was really pleasant to senti- 
mentalize with a sweet, sensible girl like Penelope. 

“Whose ‘Fancy’ was it, please?” asked Ruth demurely, 
with a softly rising color in her face. 

“A young man’s — ah! I see a point there. You think the 
world would have smiled if the poet had said, ‘A middle-aged 
man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love? But that is 
due solely to the word Tightly. ’ A middle-aged man should 
do nothing lightly, especially in love matters. I hope you do 
not think me frivolous? I am getting perilously near forty.” 

“Oh, no, Mr. Phythian! I do not think you are frivolous,” 
said Ruth, with a soft laugh. She added, “ But I think you 
bear your age well. When I am forty I shall feel myself an 
old woman.” 

“Some women at that age are old; they are the women 
whose youthfulness adds no additional charm to life. By the 
same token, Miss Penelope, when you are forty you will be as 
a flower in full bloom.” 

“Now I know what flattery is. Why do you call me 
Penelope ? ” 

“Because every one else calls you Ruth. We like our own 
little private garden better than the finest of public parks. 
Yet I like the name Ruth, and the quality. I am here to-day 
because I would no longer be Ruth-less.” 

The girl cast her eyes down, while she blushed and seemed 
to draw away from her companion. 

Balthasar looked at her curiously for some moments, and 
then he said, “ I know a man very much of my age and make- 
up. His family is not among the lordly oaks, nor yet the 
humble currant-bushes. He is a sort of walnut-tree, or possi- 
bly not unlike one of these large-boled apple-trees whose dig- 


124 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE *■ 


nity is as genuine as its quaintness. He'dias money enough to 
keep a lady in luxury. He is a bit of a scholar, a bit of a 
philosopher, a bit of the man of the world, and a bit of a re- 
cluse. His worst enemy never impeached his moral courage 
or his truthfulness. His friends say flattering things of his 
temper, for which they give him no credit, however, attribut- 
ing everything to nature and nothing to grace. This is unjust; 
it is the bitter blending with the sweet. Now, if this man 
were to come and say to you, ‘Miss Penelope, I need a wife, 
and you certainly ought to be charged with some man’s happi- 
ness. If you will take me for better for worse, I will keep 
only unto you until death us do part. Faithful in service, 
affectionate in sentiment, I will identify your happiness with 
my honor, and will make it the business of my life to preserve 
both inviolate.’ Tell me, if he spake thus to you would you 
incline your ear graciously unto him and give him of the sweet 
honey of hope ? ” 

He stood before her with uncovered head and with an anx- 
ious look in his eyes and upon his face, waiting for her reply. 
Was he in love with the girl, who stood with bowed head and 
burning face, a piece of maiden grace and sweetness and mel- 
ody ? Half an hour earlier he would have answered for himself 
with a truthful negative. But just now he would have declined 
an answer, for motives of doubt as much as of delicacy. Some- 
how his oblique wooing of the girl had reacted upon himself, 
and had suddenly begotten within him a new, a quite new, and 
almost painfully delicious sensation. By some subtile magic 
Penelope had become transfigured in his eyes. She was no 
longer his ironical lady of the mill — merely a sweet, intelligent 
girl, with instincts and tastes decidedly superior to her station. 
All this realism had left her now, and she was enveloped in 
that mystic medium that dissolves or interpenetrates the com- 
mbn sheath and mask of our humanity and discloses the angel 
or the goddess in the woman or the girl. 

Balthasar gazed at Ruth in silent wonder. Whence had 
come so swiftly, so mysteriously, the strange beauty, the in- 
effable sweetness, the divine mystery, the strong, passionate 
charm, the semi-religious, semi-voluptuous enchantment that 
seemed hers, inalienably hers, by the same beautiful law of 
propriety that justified the loveliness and fragrance of the rose? 
Surely, he thought, this was the love of which he had often 
read, at which he had often smiled — sung by poets because it 
was a form of madness peculiar to their genius, written about 
by novelists because inferiors love to imitate their superiors, 
though they are only equal to their follies and defects. He 


WEN GOTT BETRUGT, DER 1ST WOHL BETROGEN 


I2 5 


was neither poet nor novelist, yet already he had accepted their 
theory and was prepared to defend their mad gospel of love, 
with its miracle of transfiguration. Was it really new-born 
love? Ah me! how glorious, how lovable she did look! And 
yet all this time she said not a word. He seemed to have been 
looking at her, as in a vision, for half an hour; while in reality 
it was ninety seconds at the most. He drew near to her. 
What he would have given just to touch her lovely white fin- 
gers! But he dare not. The splendid barrier of her maiden- 
hood seemed like a protecting hedge of divinity, and to touch 
her even in reverence savored of offence. 

Of a sudden she raised her head and met his gaze bravely as 
she said, “ Mr. Phythian, I know from experience how sweet is 
the honey of hope, and I would not lightly rob man or woman 
of it. But we cannot give what is not ours to give. I should 
have no hope, on my own behalf, for him, and therefore I could 
give him none.” 

“ I hope you do not mean all you say? ” said Balthasar, with 
an odd mental sensation of falling from a great height. 

“ I think I do. I am sure I do. Only I should have said 
besides that I was not ignorant of the very, very great honor 
the gentleman did me. I could not be less than grateful, less 
than proud. I think, if a girl were what she ought to be, such 
a thing would never cease to be treasured in her memory. But 
I — I meant what I said,” answered Ruth, disdaining not to 
allow the womanly pity of her heart to show itself unveiled in 
her eyes. 

Balthasar gave a deep sigh. 

“You think he would be too old?” Ruth shook her head. 

“ Too odd ? ” Another shake of her head. 

“Too set in his ways?” Another shake. 

“Too matter-of-fact and unsympathetic?” Another shake. 

“Would he be precisely the kind of man you would not like 
for a husband in any case?” Ruth gave him a splendidly 
frank look as she replied: 

“No, decidedly not, Mr. Phythian.” 

The to«e was worthy of the words, and both were worthy of 
the nobly frank glance. It was the best thing in the line of 
compliment that had ever befallen Balthasar Phythian. It was 
what any man might have felt richer for having — an added 
touch of honor and nobility. 

Balthasar bowed low his acknowledgments. There was a 
short silence, which was broken by Balthasar saying, “ I have 
no wish to trespass on forbidden ground, Miss Penelope; but 
I would rather trespass than lose my way. Will you forgive 


126 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


me if I ask you to give me a clew to the state of your mind ? 
Could you, without paining yourself, tell me why the case 
would be hopeless?” 

“Oh, please don’t ask me! It is a secret, and I could not 
tell you unless ” she paused. 

“ Unless I promised to keep it? Ha! I begin to see light. 
I am too late, methinks. Miss Penelope, Balthasar Phythian 
never yet betrayed a trust.” 

“ Oh, I am sure of that! ” cried Ruth. 

“ I am less satisfied than ever, though. As a rival, he is 
naturally the wrong man for you. He is a villain, and will 
make your life a curse to you. I must know who he is that I 
may slay him. Then I gather, since it is a secret, that your 
father knows nothing about it. He would hardly have talked 
to me as he did, had he known that your affections were already 
engaged. You make me miserable, my child! ” 

My child! What a paternal touch for a hopeless lover! 
They both felt the touch. It was not unlike a slight shock of 
electricity. It was unpremeditated, involuntary, and genuine; 
and though it jarred, it did not repel. On the contrary, it 
seemed to call into existence a bond of sympathy exactly 
adapted to their natures, without fretting and galling. Odd, 
very odd ! Life is odd, but true. That one word child, uttered 
spontaneously, not disavowed, but left to stand uncorrected, 
wrought a change of mental attitude in both man and maid 
such as might not have been reached after long and strenuous 
effort. Their glances met, and each made to the other a silent 
confession that the new-born truth was recognized and accepted. 

“It is better so,” murmured Ruth, giving him her hand, 
while her eyes filled with tears. 

He did not ask, and she had no need to explain, what was 
better so, or why. This was transformation number two. Wen 
Gott betriigt , der 1st wohl betrogen ! When the gods are merry 
they will have their joke, willy-nilly. They passed into the 
bower, where Ruth seated herself, but Balthasar remained 
standing. He became lost in thought. Ruth watched him 
for some time, and thought he had a beautiful face for a man. 
Suddenly he looked at her and said, “ I do not know what Jano 
will think — or say — or do. She will probably wish that she 
could put me in the corner like a naughty boy, or send me to 
bed without any supper. Don’t you think you could explain 
matters better than I could to her ? ” 


CHAPTER XV 


A CONSPIRACY 

** I am sure I do not know. You seem to think she will be 
very disappointed. Did she really wish it?” asked Ruth, 
with a distinct accent of doubt in her voice. 

“ I assure you there is not the smallest doubt on the subject,” 
answered Balthasar. 

“You mean she raised no objection?” 

“To be perfectly frank, Miss Penelope, it was Jano’s idea 
from first to last.” 

“Not your own?” Ruth’s eyes were wide open now, seeing 
which Balthasar thought it might be as well to hedge a little. 

“ Jano, you know, is more fertile in ideas than I, but perhaps 
is not quite so practised in conduct. She furnishes the idea, 
I work it out. You laugh — at least you look as if you were 
going to. But I assure you it is a capital arrangement. I 
sometimes think if it were carried out on a large scale, and 
loyally, the world would be less of a jumble than it is.” 

But Ruth was not thinking of the big world at all. All the 
vitality of Balthasar’s theory was run into his application of it 
to herself. In the matter of wife-seeking, for instance, it did 
seem strange for Balthasar to follow not his own iniative, but 
that of his sister. She would like to have put a number of 
questions on the subject, which was as attractive as it was odd. 
But what impressed her most was the idea that Janoca, the 
sweet and stately, the dignified and gracious Janoca Phythian, 
had actually chosen her as fit and worthy to wear and bear the 
Phythian name and honor. People not infrequently entertain 
and consort with ideas which occasion no friction or heart- 
burning, so long as they remain personal, private, and unem- 
bodied. But let them once become incarnate in speech, and 
they stand a good chance of encountering the cold shoulder, if 
not the contempt and scorn of their former hosts. But Ruth 
Boden would have stood bravely by her private thought just 
now, even had it been cast into the rough and hard mould of 
speech. That thought was this: “In none of the finer, richer, 
truer senses of the word am I a lady like her. But she must 


128 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


believe that I would be if I could, that I love ladyhood as the 
pure stuff of womanhood, that I would rather be a real lady 
poor than a duchess rich and vulgar. Not title, not genius, 
not learning, not saintship is worthy to unfasten the shoe- 
latchet of the real lady. And yet she thought me worthy to 
be her brother’s wife! ! ! ” From which it is plain that Ruth 
had both an exalted and refined conception of ladyhood knd a 
noteworthy prejudice against the vulgarization of that loveliest 
of lovely words — lady. 

And if it were not ridiculous, and a sign of utter incapacity 
to appreciate contemporaneous facts, one might be tempted to 
wish that so long as the fact of ladyhood exists, the term Lady 
might have been saved from the base soil and smirch of popu- 
lar usage. 

Said Ruth, “ I should like to tell her how proud I am that 
she thought me fit to be — anything to her. I shall never for- 
get it.” 

“ I have long had a suspicion that Jano was no fool. I know 
it for a certainty now. But you have not answered me yet. 
Will you tell her?” 

“Oh, I wish I could say I would! but I don’t know how I 
could. I should have to tell her — everything.” 

“You may trust her. She is as true as steel.” 

“I am sure of that, but — oh, I’m afraid I am a wretchedly 
selfish girl! But I have my own trouble before me, Mr. Phy- 
thian. I tremble to think how father will take it when he 
knows,” said Ruth, while the tears rushed involuntarily to her 
eyes. 

“ Nay, nay, you must have no trouble on that score. Leave 
that to me. I’ll tell him that the match is off — that we do not 
suit each other. He will understand that a girl is not obliged 
to take a man old enough to be her father. Come to think of 
it, the idea is ridiculous. What right has an old fogy like me 
to aspire to sweet eighteen ? I am ashamed of my imperti- 
nence, and I will tell him so.” 

“ But I can see he has set his heart upon it. And I am not 
surprised at it. He will want to know why I have dared to 
throw away such an honor, and I cannot tell him.” 

“Tut, tut! An honor! Why not let the cat out of the bag 
at once ? ” 

“Oh, Mr. Phythian, you don’t know! He seems to hate 
him. I think he would rather see me dead than attached to 
him.” 

“That sounds very shocking, Miss Penelope. It makes 
things look serious. Won’t you tell me who it is?” 


A CONSPIRACY 


I29 


“It is my cousin, Abel Boden.” 

“What! the picturesque young blacksmith?" 

“ Yes." 

“Well, well, well! I have always taken an interest in that 
young fellow; he always brings back memories of Italy. And 
I hear he is no common man. Quite a naturalist, isn’t he?" 

“Yes. He is wonderfully clever, and so good and noble. 
But father can’t forget the quarrel he had with his own brother, 
Abel’s father, years ago.” 

“So I understand. The miller has got a bad name through 
that business. People cry shame upon him for his treatment 
of his own brother’s child." 

“I know, I know; but father doesn’t see it in that light. 
No girl could have wished a better father than he has been to 
me. And I tried so hard not to care for Abel, for father’s 
-ake. But it is of no use; we have loved each other from 
childhood," said Ruth; and the confession put her modesty to 
the defence of a sweet blush. 

>“ Dear me ! what a wise owl I must have looked in your 
eyes! Ah, well! in this matter I am going to stand by both 
of you. With your permission I will just think it over a bit, 
alone." 

So saying, Balthasar stepped from the bower and promenaded 
slowly up and down the short white-gravelled path in front. 
Presently he halted before Ruth and said: 

“Miss Penelope, we must kill two birds with one stone. 
Your bird is your father. My bird is Jano. The truth is, I do 
not want Jano to know how things have gone with us two." 

“ Why?" 

“Well, one secret deserves another. She is determined to 
get me married, by hook or by crook. I cannot exactly tell 
you her reason, except that it concerns the future disposition 
of our joint property. If you could have had me it would have 
been all right. But I do not want to try again. Now, could 
not we manage between us to hoodwink both of them ? They 
conspire against us; why should not we conspire against them ? ’’ 

“ I don’t see how we can." 

“ It is easy enough. Suppose we give them to understand 
that, while we are not engaged to each other, we do not abso- 
lutely hate each other — that we have a sort of understanding 
with each other. You can easily explain matters to the pic- 
turesque gentleman, cannot you ? ’ 

“Oh, yes; but " 

“But what?" 

“We should be telling an untruth.” 

9 


130 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“ That is the rub, Miss Penelope, I know. But I would do 
the bulk of the romancing; and I think I could do it cheaply, 
so to speak. I mean I would not deal much in the genuine 
article. I would avoid the costly article of falsehood pure and 
simple, and go in for cheap but effective imitation. A few 
white lies mixed skilfully with a few half-truths, and we are 
delivered out of the hands of our enemies. Indeed, I do not 
see how otherwise I can avert your father’s anger.” 

Nor did Ruth. Likewise, she failed to grasp the real truth 
of the situation. Not on his own account would Balthasar 
have veered a hair’s breadth from the truth — Jano the terrible, 
and matrimony the awful, notwithstanding. The miller’s 
almost rancorous hatred of Abel was common knowledge. For 
some few years it had lain sluggish and dormant, and some 
people opined that it had eaten away its own heart and had 
died for want of sustenance. But since the day of the sale of 
Jack Wragg’s place and the coming of the new smith these 
sanguine people had had occasion to change their opinion. 

Hate will hibernate like a bear. Deprived of opportunity, 
like the famous grains of wheat in the pyramid, it will hold 
its vitality against time with invincible patience and miracu- 
lous endurance. Hate will do anything but die. Considered 
as an illustration of the scientific doctrine of natural selection, 
its hold on life is highly suggestive. There are germs which 
trouble the soul of the experimenter who would like to demon- 
strate the truth of spontaneous generation. They refuse to be 
killed. He may boil them, he may burn them, but he is never 
absolutely sure that they are dead. These are the molecules that 
constitute the physical basis of hate in the human organism. 

The miller had assimilated his full share of these unloving 
atoms, and their activity of late had been unequalled. How 
they would dance and pirouette, gyrate and swing, toss and 
tumble in atomic madness, should the miller by evil chance 
light on Ruth’s secret! It was a commotion too fearful for 
Balthasar to contemplate unmoved. Some time, of course, 
the miller would have to learn the truth; but not at present, 
while his hate was new-blown toward Abel and his hope for 
Ruth was flowing like a full tide. 

“ I think it is our best way out of the difficulty. It will be 
awkward for you at times, I fear. You must try and see the 
humorous side of it. I think it will be a capital joke. Be 
brave, and all will come out right” said Balthasar, when Ruth, 
after considerable hesitation, had agreed to his proposal. 

“ Am I a very naughty girl ? ” Ruth inquired, as she gave 
him her hand at parting. 


A CONSPIRACY 


J 3i 

“ No, not very. You are just naughty enough to be nice.” 

“ Suppose Abel should object?” 

“ Is he a jealous fellow ? ” 

“ N °,” answered Ruth, coloring; “but still he might object.” 

Then you must turn him over to me. I will manage him. 
Hei! what a comedy I have put my hand to! If Jano only 
knew! But there! if she will trust me with ideas, she must 
accept my embodiment of them. Jch hab' gethan , was ich nicht 
lassen konnte. Now I will to your father.” He raised his hat, 
bowed in grand style, and left Ruth alone in the bower in the 
back-garden. 

She remained there until Jane came and announced that tea 
was ready and the miller was asking for her; then she went in, 
full of fear and trembling. The miller was unusually quiet, 
and sat the greater part of the tea through without saying any- 
thing; nor was Ruth inclined to break the silence. At length, 
however, the miller remarked, “Anyhow, he is a queer kind of 
man. I can’t quite get the hang of him, can you ? ” 

“Whom do you mean, father?” asked Ruth, a trifle nervous. 

“Who? Why, Mr. Phythian, of course.” 

“Yes, he is a bit peculiar. I think it takes time to under- 
stand him.” 

“That’s true. Yet I gather you understood one another to- 
day, eh?” 

Ruth flushed crimson. “Yes, I knew what he meant; but 
that is a different thing from understanding him as a man.” 

“ Happen you’ll have time for that when you are his wife.” 
Whereat Ruth bent her head, but made no answer. 

“Thinking it over, I’m none so sure but what you did the 
right thing, Ruth. It’s as well to hang back awhile. Men 
are much of a breed all through. They would rather a girl ran 
from them, so be that she lets them overhaul her at last. It’s 
a mighty fine thing for you, my lady, and I hope you will play 
your cards well. Let there be no fooling, no dilly-dallying. 
Watch your opportunity, and when it comes use it. He won’t 
be content with things as they are for long, you may be sure; 
though he seems well pleased with his headway so far. But 
don’t carry the thing too far. When the time comes, close the 
bargain, name the day, and then thank your stars that you had 
a father with wit enough to count a pile of schooling-money as 
bread cast on the waters. Come and give me a kiss, lassie,” 
said the miller, pushing back his chair from the table. 

Ruth came round the table and kissed him. 

“You don’t look very gladsome, considering the luck you 
are in. What is it, lassie? Fretting about leaving your 


1 3 2 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


crusty, rusty old dad? You won’t grow too proud to know 
him when you’re the fine lady, shall you? Well, cry it out, 
lass. It’s a woman’s way when she’s o’erjoyed.” 

Ruth’s head was upon his shoulder, as she stood behind him, 
weeping bitterly. Oh, if she could only have opened her heart 
to him just for once! Yes, he loved her, fiercely, passionately, 
sometimes angrily. He clung to her desperately; he had noth- 
ing else to cling to. But he never loved her as her nature 
cried out for — in such wise that her heart could open and take 
him in, and feed him with its secret life of joy and sorrow. 
Into her inner real life he had never penetrated, never thought 
of penetrating. Confidence demands confidence. His own 
interior life was a terra incognita — a world shut up, sealed, 
guarded, unspeakable. Maybe this accounted for the fact that 
parent and child lived lives apart as the North Pole from the 
South Pole. When Ruth had done sobbing the miller rose 
from his chair and got his hat and stick for a stroll. At the 
door he turned and said: 

“ He said something about keeping it quiet for a while. I’m 
not going to brag about it, nor yet put a gag in my mouth. A 
friend can bide his time; but if I should run across one of the 
other sort, and I thought he needed a choke-pear, happen I 
should let drop a word.” 

It would seem that the miller was not counting on a white 
crow or a black swan when he contemplated the possibility of 
encountering one of “the other sort.” For in the space of four 
or five days it was the one theme that held all tongues, how 
that Gentleman Phythian was “ sweet ” on Ruth Boden. In 
the lead mines of Yewdle Brig, in the stone quarries of Pot- 
ter’s Carr, among the marble inlayers of Chaughford Nick, 
among the silk weavers of Rible Mocr, in hill hamlet and in 
vale village, men and women found something unusually fla- 
vorous in this piece of gossip. It was all owing to the person- 
ality of Balthasar. For miles round everybody knew him or 
knew of him. A certain piquancy, a certain tinge of romance, 
clung to him; he was always spoken of with respect, seasoned 
with a dash of the awe that attaches to mystery. And now at 
last the romantic bachelor was entrapped, like his ordinary 
unromantic brothers, in the net of feminine wile and charm. 
That it would be an ordinary courtship and an every-day mar- 
riage no one pretended to believe. It would be distinguished 
and made extraordinary by something or other, without doubt 
— by something in keeping with his singular character. 

Voe itself was deeply stirred by the news. Not for twenty 
years or more, since the day when they turned out, headed by 


A CONSPIRACY 


133 


the squire himself, to try and find Abel Boden, the fugitive 
from justice, had the Voese been so charged with the social 
electricity of surprise and sympathy running irresistibly to 
speech. The women gathered at one or two of the cottages 
which had been time out of mind their rallying-points, and at 
the little omnium-gatherum shop just below the smithery. Of 
old, the men had met on state occasions at Jack Wragg’s 
smithery, under the spreading elm; but poor Jack Wragg was 
under the sod now. And the new-comer had brought new ways 
with him — ways that hardly went with the general fitness of 
things. Even the anvil gave out a foreign kind of music now- 
adays, and certain patriarchal nostrils could not for the life of 
them detect so much as “th’ same owd smell” from the friz- 
zling hoofs of the horses. For obvious reasons, the men of 
Voe could no longer assemble in front of the forge, and had to 
content themselves with the common room at the Nag’s Head, 
and with the stone banquette that ran along the parapet of the 
bridge across the Scarthin, just where it curved itself into the 
village. 

From the Nag’s Head to the banquette, and from the bridge 
to the Nag’s Head, backward and forward passed Am Ende, 
with increasing unsteadiness of gait at each journey. Being 
in great demand, his self-importance grew like a magic gourd. 
All he knew of the affair was what he had picked up from the 
gossips; but he was known to be hand in glove with the miller, 
and was accordingly credited with a first-hand knowledge of 
the great topic of the day. Am Ende was quite equal to the 
occasion. The moment he knew the part he was expected to 
play he was ready to play it. Not a parliamentary whip, not 
a political manager during a party crisis, not a great caucus 
organizer conducting an extra-parliamentary agitation in the 
streets could have carried himself with a finer air of secret and 
weighty knowledge. He talked incessantly, but less with his 
tongue than with his hands and eyes and feet. He gave a 
kick with his foot, after some one had made the announcement 
that Balthasar and Ruth were not to be married for a year, and 
the assembled company knew in an instant that the statement 
was moonshine; three months was nearer the mark than a year. 
An hour later half a dozen were prepared to swear that Am 
Ende had said there would be a wedding in three months. He 
had literally kicked it into them — nothing else. The foot, 
towever, for the purposes of speech is a clumsy stammerer 
compared with the nimble subtility and dexterity of hand and 
eye. Am Ende gave names, dates, and places; spun yarns, 
propounded theories, contradicted statements, and covered in- 


134 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


numerable suggestions and suggestors with beautiful ridicule — 
and this without the aid of half a dozen words. He thought 
the best place for his tongue was in his cheek. Words were 
dangerous things, and the miller was a dangerous man, reflected 
Am the wise. 

The sage, with spirits a little elevated, was making anything 
but a bee-line — though when the Yankees call a straight line a 
bee-line one wonders if they ever watched the line of a bee’s flight 
— from the Nag’s Head to the bridge, when he met Christopher 
Kneebone. Though Am Ende was born in sin and shapen in 
impudence, it was a sign that he was considerably market pert, 
and superior to the ordinary facts of life, when he accosted 
Kneebone with, “ Happen you’re glad o’ th’ news, blacksmith, 
being the miller’s buzzum friend?” 

“ Let me see. I guess we have met before, and it wasn’t in 
the daylight either,” said Kneebone, in a significant tone. 

Am Ende’s jaw dropped suddenly, and he had a sensation on 
the top of his head as if the red bristles that grew thereon were 
slowly erecting themselves. A ghastly grin of terror over- 
spread his cadaverous countenance. “ Happen you’re mistook, 
guvner?” he said abjectly. 

“Possibly; but I thought I recognized your voice. How- 
ever, that can wait. What’s the news?” 

“ It’s common talk that Gentleman Phythian is courtin’ the 
miller’s girl, Ruth.” 

“What! Phythian of the Chase?” 

Am Ende gave a nod. 

“ It is something new then, is it ? ” 

“Well, it’s noo to them as hasna heard it afore. Lord! 
she’ll be a tiptop leddy, and no great friend of mine neither. 
Some folks get their deserts and go down, and some dunno get 
their deserts and go up. And good-day to you, sir.” 

Am Ende held his way to the bridge, while Kneebone walked 
slowly up the hill to the smithy, revolving in his mind Am 
Ende’s curious doctrine that they only who “go down” get 
their deserts. For a blacksmith and an Englishman, Kneebone 
was oddly fond of ideas. The ordinary blacksmith has no 
more use for ideas than for Greek roots. A more uninventive, 
unimaginative craftsman does not exist; yet there are few 
crafts in which a little invention, and a little imagination, 
and an occasional idea would show to better advantage. Abel 
was busy with the tire of a new wheel, under the elm-tree, 
when Kneebone came up. 

“Abel, lad, leave the work alone a bit and come inside. I 
want to have a word or two with you,” said Kneebone, passing 


A CONSPIRACY 


135 


into the shop. He went to the far end and sat down on a 
three-legged stool. What would Jack Wragg have said if he 
had only known ? He would have cried, with his incomparable 
irony, “ Nay, mon, a three-legged stoo’ is a poor weak thing. 
Nothing like a arm-cheer an’ a sofy for a smith’s shop.” And, 
indeed, there were times when Kneebone felt so played out 
that he did actually drop work and go into the house and lie 
down on the “ sofy. ” But this was a secret known only to Abel, 
and guarded from the Voese as a shameful thing. 

“ Have you heard the news ? ” asked Kneebone, as Abel came 
and leaned against a pair of old bellows close by him. 

“No. I’ve asked no one, and no one has told me. I’ve 
been too busy to find out.” 

“ Perhaps it’s as well you were. Can you trust me with a 
secret, lad?” 

“ What secret ? ” 

“Isn’t there something going on between you and your 
cousin Ruth ? ” 

Abel gave a start, and the blood rushed into his face. “ Do 
you mean it’s out, then ? ” he asked, in a low voice that sounded 
almost fierce. 

“Nay, nay, not that. You are off the track, lad. As I 
gather, what they are talking about is that Gentleman Phy- 
thian, as they call him, is in love with the miller’s daughter 
and is courting her.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


A NATURALIST ON SPOOKS 

Abel laughed aloud. 

“You don’t believe it, I see.” 

“ No, not quite. They’ve stuffed you this time, and no 
mistake! ” 

“ If they have fooled me it is only because they are fooled 
themselves. I learned it from Am Ende just now. It’s what 
they are all talking about.” 

A frown showed itself on Abel’s face for a moment or two, 
but it vanished as he broke out in laughter again. 

“ What are you laughing at, lad ? ” inquired Kneebone, who 
had never heard Abel laugh before to-day. 

“Laugh? It’s enough to make an owl laugh. When Mr. 
Phythian wants a wife, I’m thinking it won’t be Ruth Boden 
he’ll seek. For me, now, a village blacksmith, it would be 
quite a lift to marry the daughter of a rich miller. In a sense, 
and in a way, Ruth is a lady. I mean, she has been well edu- 
cated and is the opposite of a vulgar girl. But she is no lady 
in the sense that Miss Phythian is. Gentles mate with gentles. 
It skills not a brass button how fine a girl she may be, Bal- 
thasar Phythian looks at no Voe girl.” 

“ I know precious little of the gentleman; but I opine from 
what you say that he’s a donkey.” 

“ If he’s a donkey I’ve no ambition to be a horse.” 

“ Is that so ? I guess, then, he has looked at Ruth Boden. 
And when he was looking, like as not he forgot all about Bal- 
thasar Phythian and thought only of Ruth Boden. I’ve seen 
her, you know. She is not a beauty, but she has a face and 
figure and carriage that would be quite able to bowl over a 
mature bachelor who was no donkey, and was willing and per- 
haps waiting to be bowled over. I’ve seen a lot of the world, 
lad; and what would strike Voe as being a nine-days’ wonder 
would be thought nothing of in the big world.” 

Abel made no answer, only laughed louder than ever. Knee- 
bone watched him, and his face grew serious. 

“You haven’t said whether you could trust me with a secret 
yet, lad.” 


A NATURALIST ON SPOOKS 


137 


Oh, yes, I can trust you, Mr. Kneebone; but remember it is 
a secret, and one which would bring no end of trouble if it got 
out.” 

“ My lad, I’ve heard a lot of secrets in my time. Some of 
them would make you open your eyes, and others would make 
your heart grow sick. Talk about novels and romances, lad— 
not but what I’m desperate fond of a good story — but novels, 
lad, they’re milk and water, skim-milk and water, compared 
with the true tales of life. But there! that can wait. You 
love her, do you ? ” 

“ With all my body and with all my soul ! ” 

“Well done, lad! That’s an answer worthy of a king. She 
loves you ditto ? ” 

“ I believe she would say so. Anyway, I believe it of her.” 

“You don’t doubt her a bit?” 

“Not an atom.” 

“ Suppose Mr. Phythian did really make her an offer, what 
do you think she would do ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I never thought of such a thing. But she 
would say no, of course.” 

“And the miller?” 

“He would jump at it like a fish at a fly.” 

“ Then he would want to know why she said the gentleman 
nay, wouldn’t he?” 

“Yes, if he knew of it.” 

“And he would know of it if Mr. Phythian were the suitor. 
Would she tell the miller her reason?” 

“Tell the miller? If he guessed she even spoke to me he 
would shut her up in her room and keep her on bread and water 
for a twelvemonth. He hates me, without a cause,” said Abel, 
with a deep sigh. He always sighed when he thought of the 
miller and his hate. 

“ Well, happen it isn’t altogether without a cause. Seeking 
for causes, lad, you mustn’t run along the grass. They are the 
roots of things, and they are apt to lie deep down, deeper than 
we can get with pick and spade. But, my lad, where there’s 
smoke there’s fire; and there’s a lot of smoke about just now. 
Take my advice: waste no time, but see your lass as soon as 
you can, and just find out for yourself what’s the meaning of 
all this gossip and chatter. There is something in the wind, 
you may be pretty sure. Maybe she’s on bread and water this 
blessed minute.” 

At this Abel gave a start. 

“ Of course you’ve got a carrier-pigeon to act as postman or 
woman for you two ? ” 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


138 

“Yes, I can generally get word to her.” 

“Then you had better go and throw the bird up without 
delay.” 

So Abel turned down his sleeves, put on his coat, and went 
out. Across the road, leaning against an orchard gate, was 
Am Ende, in conversation with Silas Chalk. Before Abel 
came up to them they parted, Chalk crossing some meadows in 
the direction of a distant coppice, with a couple of dogs at his 
heels. Am Ende, with his back to the road, leaned over the 
gate and gave his whole attention to the retreating figure of 
the under-keeper and the frolicking of his dogs. 

A little distance below the smithery was a steep sandy lane, 
that crossed the brow of the hill and finally opened out on to a 
wide expanse of rolling ground, grass-covered, with jutting 
gray rocks, patches of heather, furze, and full of curious dips 
and hollows, and corresponding humps and hillocks. At the 
top of the lane, on the edge of the uplands, trim and snug in 
the centre of a garden, stood a small cottage, one-half of which 
seemed covered with honeysuckle as yet fast asleep, while the 
other half had been taken possession of by the quick climber 
yclept the Ramping Widow, whose myriad yellow eyes were 
already open. At the far end of the garden were kennels for 
the accommodation of ten or a dozen dogs. Only about half 
of them were occupied just now, but their occupants, healthy 
young sporting-dogs — although not “matched in mouth like 
bells each under each ” — spent their mouths from sunrise to sun- 
set in cries tunable enough at a distance. Here lived Violet 
Chalk. She was baking bread, and had just put the first two 
loaves into the oven, when of a sudden she stood in a listening 
attitude in the middle of the room. It was early, by a fort- 
night, for the cuckoo, who was, moreover, a shy bird, giving 
the open uplands a wide berth, being fond of thicket privacy 
and woodland shelter. Yet close at hand, as it were in the 
lane, she heard the unmistakable cry of the cuckoo. 

“No, it can’t be. Happen it’s young Abel,” murmured the 
woman, as the bird’s notes came for the third time, true to the 
life. She unhung from the wall an old sunburnt billy-cock hat 
of her husband’s. Of velveteen, its original shade of light 
buff had changed into a deep amber. Putting it jauntily on 
her head, she went out and down the garden walk to the wicket- 
gate. Her arms were bare; her dress was turned up in front 
and pinned behind; her white apron was tucked up on one 
side. She wore a pretty pink-and-gray striped underskirt, 
short enough to show her shapely ankles. With her amber- 
colored hat, and her bright eyes, and her handsome face, and 


A NATURALIST ON SPOOKS 


139 


her picturesque “ get-up,” she made a pretty figure as she leaned 
over the gate and looked down the lane. Close to her, by the 
hedge of budding thorn that bounded the garden, was Abel 
Boden. Violet Chalk laughed as she said: 

“ I reckoned it was a cuckoo that couldn’t fly who’d make a 
call in this lane. What’s the meaning of your long face?” 

“I must see Ruth this evening,” answered Abel, very seri- 
ously. 

“Heigho! then you’ve heard the silly gossip, I judge?” 

“Yes; and I must know what it means.” 

“Means? Moonshine! I heard it yesterday morning, and 
do you think if it hadn’t been moonshine I shouldn’t have been 
down at the mill in no time? But there! you men are all 
alike. You think a woman isn’t to be trusted farther than you 
can see her. There’s my man. If he only knew you were here 
talking with me all alone like this he’d crack his skin with 
jealousy. If you got your deservings, there’s precious few of 
you would have the chance of calling a woman your own. 
How did you know Silas wasn’t at home?” 

“ I saw him going toward the bear coppice as I came along.” 

“ Well, I’m glad your boldness didn’t shame your wit. When 
you want to see me, don’t you ever forget that you’ve got a 
brother in jealousy, and his name is Silas Chalk.” 

“You shall never suffer through me, Violet. And as for 
thanking you for your kindness to me and Ruth, I ” 

“ Nay, I want no thanks. If I couldn’t stand by Miss Ruthie 
at a time like this, I should think myself a mighty poor stick. 
I’ve got some loaves a-baking now, and when they’re done I’ll 
just put on my things and run down and — listen! there’s some- 
body — there! I just saw his head. To the top of the lane; 
quick, and see who it is!” exclaimed Violet Chalk, giving 
Abel a push with her hand. 

Abel was off like a deer. A hundred yards or so brought 
him to the top of the lane that dipped steeply into the village. 
Between the high banks on either side he could see half the 
entire length of the lane. There was a well-known hawker 
with his donkey and panniers just heaving in sight. Other- 
wise the lane was deserted. 

Abel came back smiling. 

“ There’s the peddler of Swaffwick and his ass, almost at the 
bottom. There’s nobody else about.” 

“Happen eyes and ears both lied, but I doubt it. If it 
wasn’t Silas I don’t care; and if it was, I — don’t care either. 
You’d better go now. If I don’t pass the smithy you’ll know 
it’s all right. She will want to see Dame Betty Iperson this 


I40 THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 

e’entide, I judge,” said Violet Chalk, laughing, as she turned 
and went toward the house with the carriage of a chastened 
coquette. In about an hour she left the cottage and went down 
Tyntack Lane, bound for the mill on the other side of the river. 
There was a stone cowshed near a gate, about half-way down 
the lane. As she passed the gate a man peered at her for a 
moment through a large vent-hole in the shed. A minute or 
two elapsed, and then Am Ende issued from the cowshed, and 
crossing the field climbed to the summit of a bold head of 
land, that was crowned with some fine red-boled pines. Thence 
he could see the length of Tyntack Lane, and the Voe road 
down the hill and across the Scarthin, and the lane beyond 
that led to the mill. One of the mill ricks was partly visible, 
and the blue smoke from the homestead curling upward among 
the dark pines that covered the whole side of the hill. Am Ende 
seated himself with his back to a large stone, lighted his pipe, 
and smoked leisurely, keeping his glance all the time on the 
figure of Violet Chalk, until he saw it turn up the lane to the 
mill, when it was hidden by the trees. Presently he put his 
pipe carefully down, curled himself up in the sunshine, and 
went fast asleep. 

Dame Betty Iperson has very little to do with our present 
narrative, touching it incidentally once or twice only. But no 
chronicler of Voe and the Voese may so much as mention her 
name without halting for a moment to do her reverence, for she 
was of unknown antiquity — probably as old as the oldest an- 
nuitant on the military pension-list. Her mother was a gypsy, 
her father was a charcoal-burner, and she was born some time 
subsequent to the Norman Conquest, on the top of a hill on 
the edge of a wood. There was no house on the hill-top, or 
barn or cowshed; but there was a kindly yew-tree, with 
mighty, drooping branches — one of those single-roomed pal- 
aces wherein primeval kings ate and drank, held court and 
war-council, and cultivated the royal taste for noble architect- 
ure. Under this tree was Betty born, and under it she lived 
for the space of fifty years. Then she fell deadly sick, and so 
was manageable. The old squire took her from under her 
own roof-tree and put her in a wee nest of a cottage at the foot 
of the hill, between the wood and the river. But Betty would 
have gone back again to her dear tree, in spite of all the old 
squire could do, had not nature come to his assistance and 
tamed her with the cruel cords of rheumatism. 

She was a pensioner when the present squire was born; she 


A NATURALIST 0<N SPOOKS 


141 

was a pensioner still. Nobody ever thought she would die. 
She was a white witch, and could do a thing or two better left 
unsaid. To evil-doers and urchins she was a terror, and honest 
folk also paid her a fearful respect. Yet, because her craft 
was white and levelled only against evil-doers, the popular 
sentiment concerning her was charitable and kind. She was 
the wise woman of Yoe, and many a fortune she had told, good 
and bad alike, had come true. She knew the properties of 
plants and their relations to bodily ailments, and had cured 
more than the doctors — there were two of them — who came to 
Voe had killed. Yet folk were shy of visiting, especially 
alone, the old, old woman of mysterious powers, whom death 
itself passed by. Not so, however, Ruth, who seldom allowed 
a week to go by without paying Betty a visit, and never went 
empty-handed. Eggs, butter, cream, custards, tea, new bread, 
and tea-cakes all found their way into Ruth’s dainty basket of 
blue and red and white and yellow Chinese straw. A dozen 
times had the old sibyl, “bow-bent with crooked age,” tried to 
presage Ruth’s future; but, oddly enough, she always failed. 
Always she got to : 

“Ye will be woo’d by a gentleman well-born and wealthy, 
but ” and there she stuck. 

“ Go on, Betty. But what ? ” urged Ruth, time and again. 

“Nay, nay, childie; happen there’s summat wrong. He’s a 
gentleman well-born and wealthy, and he’ll woo thee honestly, 
and ye two ought to mate; but I canna see it, I canna see it, 
childie. And I wunna see aught else ,” muttered Betty, with 
determination. If she could not shape destiny, she could at 
least ignore it. 

The after-glow of the setting sun had paled into delicate 
shades of pink, rose-color, green, and nameless tints of ineffa- 
ble sweetness and softness, when Ruth set out from the mill 
with some butter in her basket for Dame Betty, whose cottage 
vas a good mile away. Ruth always went by the footpath 
that followed the course of the Scarthin within a stone’s throw. 
First came two or three meadows of extreme fertility, being 
often flooded, then the path left the river-bank, and running to 
the left entered the wood and kept pretty close to the. boundary 
wall most of the way. Between the wall and the river was a 
long, narrow strip of grass-land the length of the wood. There 
was something in the grass that made it specially toothsome 
to sheep at lambing-time. In the same season the Scarthin 
had a trick of rising suddenly in the night until it covered all 
the ground and washed against the boundary wall. In the 


142 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


morning mutton was scarce and lamb scarcer; and four-footed 
Rachels, with bedraggled and bedrenched fleeces, stood making 
melancholy sounds, and would not be comforted. 

Through the openings in the bushes Ruth could see the lambs 
as she went along. Once or twice she went to the wall and 
stood and watched them. She was fond of lambs, as all good 
girls are, and in her time had been the happy possessor and 
tormentor of several pets; but of late years she had observed 
and deplored the fact that lamb nature had undergone a great 
and sad change. It was no longer sportive and frolicsome, 
given to standing on its head and jumping all-fours, as it was 
in the old time, when her early picture-books were first made. 
If Ruth had only known that the Scotch gillie had lost his dry 
humor, and the Irish carle his merry wit, she might have won- 
dered less at the mighty influence of the nineteenth century as 
displayed in the wiser but sadder lamb. 

Ruth seemed in no haste to get to the end of her journey. She 
stopped to look at the lambs, to admire the milch-cows, to gather 
wild flowers, to examine buds, mosses, trees, and rocks; also the 
industrious ants delayed her, and the conies feeding in the open 
glades. And always she was looking behind her, and listening 
for Abel’s footstep or one of his many imitative bird-notes. 
Across the river, in the open, the eventide had deepened into 
twilight, which still lingered on the path; but darkness was 
gathering quickly in the wood, and seemed to overhang her as 
the ground to her left rose abruptly into a steep pine-clothed 
hill. “He will meet me coming back,” murmured the girl to 
herself, quickening her steps. 

Suddenly a slight sound from the wood caught her ears, 
which caused her to turn her head quickly; and then she stood 
stock-still and gasped, “ Oh! oh! ” Not more than twenty feet 
from the path, with its root on a level with her head, was the 
slanting trunk of a large oak-tree, centuries old. All its boughs 
had dropped off long ago, yet the gray and gnarled monster, 
covered with big bosses, was not dead. It was not much more 
than a shell, but it fought off death with fine courage, and 
every year threw out its challenge of slender green twigs on 
its highest top. There was a hole in its trunk larger than a 
man’s head. Ruth was looking at this aperture when she was 
affrighted and cried, “Oh! oh!” for there in the uncertain 
light she beheld a hideous human face. Its gleaming eyes 
looked out from a mass of savage flame-colored hair that cov- 
ered the upper part of the face. Its mouth was wide open, 
and its tongue lolled out in horrible derision. Fascinated 
with horror, Ruth stood for some moments gazing at it with 


A NATURALIST ON SPOOKS 


M3 


parted lips and dilated eyes. Then she dropped her basket, 
screamed out “Abel! Abel!” and fled like a wild thing back 
toward home. And toward her came Abel, fast as he could 
tear. He was some distance off when that cry of “Abel! 
Abel ! ” rang through the wood. In an instant he knew it was 
Ruth, and his heart gave a great sickening throb. He put his 
hands to his mouth, and all his breath went out in a fierce and 
weird-sounding owl-cry, that Ruth may know he was at hand. 
Then he rushed forward like the wind. He saw her coming, 
halted, opened his arms, and folded them round her. Then he 
glared about like an angry bull, but no enemy loomed in sight. 

“My darling, my darling! what is it? Speak! What made 
you cry out ? ” he murmured, stroking the head of the sobbing 
and trembling girl. 

“ O Abel, don’t leave me! It was horrible! — horrible! ” 

“What was it? Somebody dead in the way — a murder?” 

“ No ; it was in the big oak — a hideous face lolling its tongue 
at me through the hole there. Take me home, love, I feel 
faint.” 

“Nay, sweet; we’re nigh the spring. Come and drink; it 
will revive you.” 

He led her to a spring with a wooden trough, that looked 
by daylight like a natural channel, so coated was it inside and 
out with exquisite greenery, summer and winter through. 
Ruth* drank of the cold crystal fluid, and decided not to faint. 

“ Where’s your basket ? ” asked Abel. 

Ruth looked at her hands in a helpless, perplexed fashion. 
“I don’t know. I suppose I dropped it.” 

“Then come along, and we will go and find it.” But Ruth 
hung back. 

Abel laughed lightly, and said, “You little coward! I am 
going to have a look at the big oak. I’m thinking there was 
nothing but your startled fancy.” 

“It will have gone, whatever it was, by now,” objected 
Ruth, shuddering. 

“ Happen it will, but I shall know when I get there whether 
bird or beast or man has been there this evening. If nothing 
has been there, why, then, it was nothing but a — a spook, as 
Mr. Kneebone calls it. He means a boggart, you know.” 

“A boggart’s bad enough, Abel,” said Ruth, with due 
solemnity. 

“ A spook, sweetheart, is just what you care to make it. It 
may be a goblin, a ghost, a devil, an angel, a natural object 
distorted by your fear, a play of the fancy, a trick of the eye. 
Sweetheart, I’ve roamed all this country, woods and valleys, 


144 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


fields and moors, as you know, at all hours of the night; and 
I’ve seen dozens of spooks, and I — I don’t take much stock in 
them. They’re a set of beggarly impostors. And I’m think- 
ing you’ve seen one of the gentry to-night.” 

“I will go,” said Ruth, her natural courage reviving under 
the breath of Abel’s brave scorn. In a few minutes they were 
opposite the big oak. 

“ Ha! here is my basket,” cried Ruth, stooping to pick it up. 

“ That’s right. Now for the tree. I can hardly see the 
hole now, Ruth.” 

“It has grown so dark up there,” whispered Ruth, clinging 
tightly to her lover’s arm. 

“Never mind; I know exactly where it is. If I can’t see I 
can feel and smell. We’ll soon settle this mystery,” said 
Abel, going toward the tree. 


CHAPTER XVII 


A CANDLE-END AND A PAIR OF EYES 

“You had better stand here. I shan’t be more than a min- 
ute or two,” said Abel, as they stood at the foot of the oak. 

“ Where are you going? ” inquired Ruth, in a low, frightened 
voice. 

“Oh, not far; only up the tree. It’s hollow, you know, 
inside; and I shall get in from the top. Luckily, it has a good 
slant, so that I can crawl along without dropping from top to 
bottom.” 

“Suppose — it — should be inside now! ” gasped Ruth. 

“In that case one of us will come out quicker than he went 
in. Happen it won’t be me either.” 

“O Abel! if it’s there, it’s listening, and knows you are 
coming! And I’m sure it wouldn’t stick at murder. Oh, 
don’t risk it! Do let us go away.” 

Abel laughed out. “ Go away from a spook ? Nay, nay, 
sweetheart. If I once began giving in to them they’d haunt 
me without end, hunt me out of the woods, turn my hair white, 
and drive me crazy. Run from them, and they are wild bulls 
or ravening wolves; face them, and they are sheep — nay, geese. 
The only boggart I ever came across that stood his ground 
when faced was an old gray jackass. Kiss me; you are my 
lass, and I would have you a brave one.” 

“ Forgive me, love. I will be brave. Now go, but be 
careful,” whispered Ruth, putting her mouth up for a kiss. 

Then Abel vanished round the tree, and Ruth stood alone in 
the darkness. She was brave now. Maybe Abel would soon 
be in great peril, in deadly conflict, and would need all the 
help she could give him. Could she help him, if need were? 
What a silly question! Help him! Her arms were strong, 
her fingers steel, her nails weapons — fine-tempered weapons of 
war, that would hold their own against eagle’s talons or tiger’s 
claws. Woe to the man or beast or boggart on whom she fell 
foul in defence of Abel! Perfectly cool, splendidly brave, 
she stood in an alert attitude, with clinched hands, parted lips, 
and eyes that would have sparkled had it not been so dark. 

io 


146 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


She heard Abel climbing the huge trunk nimbly as a wild-cat. 
Then he entered its black, cavernous mouth, and every sound 
ceased. It seemed as if the earth had swallowed him up alive. 

Stood Ruth, breathless, expecting every instant to hear some 
awful groan, or shriek, or cry for help. The moments were 
minutes, and the minutes hours; still, all was silent as the 
grave. She put her ear to the tree and listened — not a sound. 
Perhaps there had been a struggle, and she had not heard it. 
Perhaps he was already dead. Who could tell what was at the 
bottom of the tree? Possibly a bottomless hole; even the 
entrance to a cave where bad men assembled! You see, her 
imagination was getting the bit between its teeth. “ I will go 
to him,” she said aloud ; and her voice had that ring in it which 
sends a thrill through one — the divine accent of womanly hero- 
ism. She took a step forward. Just then a lighted match 
burned brilliantly above her head, in the opening through 
which the face of the satyr had shown itself. 

“Are you all right, sweetheart?” It was Abel’s voice, 
thank God! 

“Yes, love, yes, love! Shall you be long?” 

“I am coming now.” 

Ere she could count a hundred, Abel was beside her. He 
took her hand, saying, “ Come along, sweetheart. The sooner 
you’re at home the better.” 

They regained the path, now cloaked in darkness like the 
wood, and moved toward Voe, which was down the river, in 
lover-like fashion. For a little distance nothing was said. 
Abel seemed disinclined to talk, and Ruth felt a wee bit afraid 
of learning the truth. Questionless Mother Eve herself felt 
a wee bit afraid of learning the truth about that mysterious 
tree that bore the brightest fruit in all Eden; but she ate 
nevertheless. 

Said Ruth, “What did you find, dearest? Was it a spook?” 

“No, sweet; I’m thinking it was no spook.” 

“What is it, Abel ? Tell me why you speak in that voice! ” 

“ I didn’t know anything was wrong with my voice. There 
was nobody there, though it hasn’t been empty all winter. 
Mice have been in it, and squirrels and bats, and ” 

“Don’t, Abel, please! You are putting me off. Tell me 
what it was.” 

“A man,” said Abel, bluntly and almost savagely. 

“ A man ! Oh ! what does it mean ? ” 

“That’s what I can’t make out.” 

“ Perhaps it was a tramp ? ” 

“Didn’t you know it at all, Ruth — the face, I mean?” 


A CANDLE-END AND A PAIR OF EYES 147 

“ No; it looked too horrible for a man’s face.” 

“Because you were frightened, sweet. The knave! If I 
had him by the two ears only! Try and think: picture the 
face with the hair brushed away; push in that lolling tongue; 
shut the mouth, and lower the chin a good bit — for I’m think- 
ing the head was thrown back for effect. If it wasn’t so dark 
I’d show you what I mean.” 

“Don’t talk like that, dear one; it gives me the shivers. 
You could never look like that monster.” 

“ I’m none so sure of that. But do as I tell you, and see if 
you don’t conjure up a face you know.” 

For four hundred and eleven paces — Abel counted them — 
there was silence between the two; then Ruth suddenly gave a 
slight start. Abel felt it, for his arm was round her waist. 

“Well?” he said. 

“ I’m not sure, but I fancy it reminds me of — no, I won’t. 
It is not fair. It’s only a fancy, and because I don’t like him.” 

“Never mind; I’ll christen him for you. I don’t know who 
or what peered out upon you, but I know who has been in the 
big oak to-night.” 

“ Who ? ” whispered Ruth. 

“Am Ende. And happen if he doesn’t am-end he’ll come to 
a rope’s-end soon,” replied Abel, like Samson of old, running 
his wrath into grim humor. 

“ Are you sure it was Am Ende ? ” 

“Yes; I’m as sure about it as if I’d seen him there with my 
own eyes.” 

“Tell me about it, Abel, won’t you?” 

“Well, I went down inside very carefully, so as not to dis- 
turb things. The first thing I found inside was a smell of 
tobacco. Now, spooks don’t smoke, or at least I never heard 
say that they did; but Am Ende does.” 

“And plenty of other men, too.” 

“ I know, but never mind them now. My case against Am 
Ende is made up like a chain of a number of links. Separate, 
they are nothing; hung together, and happen the like of them 
are what hang most men.” 

“ I see now, dearest. Link one : a smoker has been in the 
big oak, and Am Ende smokes. Go on, love.” 

“ I had my match-box on me, of course; and as luck would 
have it, there was a candle-end in it as usual. I got a light 
and went to work. I found where the fellow sat down when 
he filled his pipe, smoked it out, and knocked out the ashes. 
When he pulled his tobacco out of his trousers-pocket he pulled 
QUt at the same time some grains of wheat and barley and oats. 


148 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


I know our friend carries his tobacco in his trousers-pocket; 
I’ve seen him pull it out. He’s nearly always chewing grain 
of some sort or other, and I’d bet a thousand to one he carries 
it in the same pocket as his tobacco. Outside of the mill, 
how many men in the place would have a grain of corn in their 
pockets if they were searched through to-night ? ” 

“ Link two: grains of corn dropped from the pocket," quoth 
Ruth. 

Abel laughed as he said, “ Link three I didn’t find, because 
my light was giving out; but it is there to a certainty. With 
a good light I shall find here and there bits of fine flour-dust 
off his clothes. Shall we count it?" 

“I think not. It would be hardly fair." 

“As you like. The ground at the bottom was clayey and 
not over dry. There were lots of footmarks; boots with big 
nails in them, not much unlike my own. The print of the 
right foot was perfect in half a dozen places. But there wasn’t 
a single perfect print of the left foot to be found. Always the 
heel was defective. Now and then there was a trace of it, but 
mostly there was no heel to the print of the left foot." 

“That looks bad." 

“Very bad, when we remember that the miller’s man has 
got a catch in his left foot, and never leaves the mark of his 
heel behind him." 

“Link three: left-heel mark unsatisfactory." 

“ The scamp, to frighten you, brought his thick crop of red 
bristles over the front of his face. I don’t suppose he had a 
comb; he used his hands. Close to the hole where you saw 
him a nasty, cruel spike of wood sticks out. Against it I 
bumped my head pretty hard. That seemed to say, if I can 
catch one, I can catch two. Just then my candle died out. 
You saw the match near the opening? Well, it showed me 
two human hairs. I’ve got them both safe enough, and their 
color, is " 

“ Red?" 

“Yes — a lovely fiery red." 

“Link four: two red hairs." 

“ That is all. The chain is short, but don't you think it 
would bear the weight of our friend Am Ende?" 

“O Abel, what does it mean?" 

Abel sighed and shook his head. It was too dark to see 
his head, but Ruth interpreted his sigh. 

“ He must have heard me call your name! " 

“Unless he has grown suddenly deaf he must have done. 
But what brought him in the big oak? How came he to dare 
to do such a thing to you ? The whole thing is a puzzle to me. 


A CANDLE-END AND A PAIR OF EYES 


I49 

Happen Mr. Kneebone will see through it, if I have a talk 
with him about it.” 

“Abel, this might be our last walk together,” said Ruth, 
with a suddenness very well calculated to surprise her lover. 

“Ha! how’s that?” asked Abel, coming to a halt. He 
was thinking now of what he had almost forgotten in the ex- 
citement of the last forty minutes — to wit, the object of his 
meeting with Ruth. 

“ I can’t help thinking that Am Ende is spying on us. Any- 
way, he knows enough now to rouse father, if he tells him.” 

“ Odd way of spying — to put your head out of a hole and 
make faces at one! As for telling your father, I don’t think 
he will, this time at any rate. I reckon you frightened him 
almost as much as he did you, by the way you screamed. But 
what if he did? Your father will have to learn the truth some 
day.” 

“Yes; but not now. I don’t know what he would do to me 
just now. I think he ” 

“ Ruth, why I wanted to see you to-night was to ask you — 
something. There’s a report in everybody’s mouth about you 
and Mr. Phythian of the Chase.” 

There was a pause of some length ere Ruth replied, “Yes, I 
know. Violet Chalk told me to-day. I never dreamt it was 
out. I think I feel it more for him than for myself.” 

“Oh, indeed!” said Abel, in a low tone; and his arm fell 
from Ruth’s waist as if it had been suddenly paralyzed. 

“ Don’t take your — I mean, don’t wrong me, my love, even 
for a moment, by thinking me untrue to you! O Abel! could 
you doubt me now?” 

“ I have not said I doubted you. I think you owe me an 
explanation. One woman is only half enough for two men. 
I’ll share with none — gentleman or clo ” 

Ruth’s hand was on his mouth, and then her lips; and 
between her sweet honey-dew kisses she murmured: 

“ And I know one woman who will share only with one man, 
though he is quick to doubt her when he ought to know she 

would ” (a long, sweet, clinging, passionate kiss) “ die for 

him!” 

She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him lightly 
and quickly back from her. It was a woman’s repulse all over, 
a piece of sweet and delicately wanton irony. Only a fool 
would have misunderstood it to mean, “Go.” It meant — it 
always means— “ Take me in your arms, if you dare, you — you 
— sweet — monster! ” 

Abel felt very much inclined to accept the dainty challenge, 
but he restrained himself. He had yet to hear what was the 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


150 

meaning of the village gossip; but whatever it was, it left 
Ruth’s loyalty intact — of that, he had now not the smallest 
doubt. Nevertheless, Abel had an instinctive knowledge of 
the fact that as there is a certain natural propriety that attaches 
to every conceivable situation in life, so every quarrel has its 
inalienable etiquette, and every reconciliation its proper punc- 
tilio. The Phythian rumor touched to the quick the honor of 
both himself and Ruth; and to give way to his impulse, and 
meet her sweet defiance with a lover’s arms before he had 
heard her formal statement, was to violate the true instinct of 
conduct. This sounds oddly precise — almost priggish. But 
Abel was no prig. Only his instinct along certain lines was as 
fine and accurate as were his organs of sight and touch and 
smell. Abel took her hand, and as they moved on he said: 

“Sweetheart, if I had any doubt, you have driven it all off; 
and I’ll see that it keeps off in future. It isn’t a pleasant thing, 
though, for a man to know that everybody is talking about his 
sweetheart being courted by some other man. To be sure, they 
don’t know you are my sweetheart.” 

“ I was so hoping you would not hear a word about it. Some 
day in the future, when — when we were always together, love, 
I meant to tell you all about it. It is a curious story, Abel, 
and I am not sure whether I did right or wrong; but you won’t 
blame me, darling, will you?” 

“Nay, nay, sweet; why should I blame you?” His arm 
stole round her waist again as he spoke; whereat the girl was 
glad, and gave a little wriggle closer to him, full of love and 
gratitude, and gave him her lips for a moment. 

“I will tell you everything as it happened,” she murmured. 
And she kept her word, and told him everything as it had 
happened. When she had finished, Abel said: 

“It is no mean chance, Ruth, that is offered you. I’m 
thinking that, hard as it would be, I have no good right to 
stand in your way. It isn’t as though there was a prospect of 
our marrying soon.” 

“ I can wait, darling. We are in no hurry to be married. 
As for you standing in my way, if we never saw each other 
again, the real obstacle would not be removed.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“Only that you are my first, my true, my only love. Until 
that is killed, I am yours and yours only. My love is the 
blessed obstacle; and O Abel! what are twenty Mr. Phythians 
compared with you ? ” 

“You darling! I will live only to make you happy,” he 
murmured, as he clasped her in his arms. Here again his 
instinct of conduct was really admirable. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A BUD' OF MYSTERY 

One evening, a few days later, Abel was just about to knock 
off work and go home, when his attention was arrested by the 
stamping of a horse in the adjoining shop, where the shoeing 
was done. He went and opened the top part of the door, which 
was cut in two, and looked in. A large fat mare, with a sleek, 
handsome hide of the color of a fine chestnut, turned her head 
and whinnied to him; then she bestowed her attention upon 
some hay in front of her. 

“Why, Jessy, wench, what brings you here?” cried Abel, in 
a surprised tone. Then he turned away, and taking off his 
coat said to Kneebone, “I didn’t know there was anything in 
there. When did she come ? ” 

“ Maybe an hour ago, when you were away. What are you 
after now ? ” 

“To put on her shoes, to be sure. You don’t think I’d go 
and leave the mare there all night?” 

“Why not? She’s got hay enough to last till morning, and 
I reckon the squire won’t fret.” 

Abel gave a hearty laugh. “Well, I never! Fancy keeping 
a mare all night waiting to be shoe’d, and feeding her into the 
bargain! We should never hear the last of their chaff, if it 
got out. Besides, they’ll be here for her soon. Who brought 
her?” 

“ Dick Poyser. I told him she’d be ready first thing in the 
morning. I guess he knew she would put up here for the 
night; he brought the hay with him.” 

“Well, if it is to be, it is to be. I shouldn’t wonder if I go 
and dream about her all night, though.” 

“It isn’t exactly the Jack Wragg way of doing things, eh?” 

“Hardly. He would have thought it as strange as if you 
had brought him a cow to shoe,” said Abel, laughing and put- 
ting on his coat again. He wished Kneebone good-day and 
left the smithery. A hundred yards away he turned as he 
heard Kneebone calling him. 

Kneebone met him by the tree in front of the forge, and 
said, “Are you going to be busy to-night?” 


* 5 2 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“ Not that I know of. Why ? ” 

“Would you mind coming round here, say about eight ?” 

“All right! I’ll come with pleasure. Happen I’d better 
not change my toggery, if there’s any work to be done?” 

“Thank you, lad. Happen you’d better not. Though I 
didn’t say that I should want you to work. About eight 
o’clock, then,” said Kneebone, with an odd look upon his face 
as he turned and entered the shop. 

All the way home Abel found himself wondering what it was 
that Kneebone wanted him for. It was an unusual request to 
make; and this, taken in conjunction with his odd look, and 
the incident of Jessy — the finest cart-horse belonging to Squire 
Saxton — formed as neat a little bud of mystery as one would 
find on the prosaic hedge of circumstance in a day’s ride. 
When Abel reached home, as usual he found tea ready waiting 
for him. There was no woman, young or old, in the little 
weird-looking cottage, built of tufa-stone, on the edge of the 
wood under the moor; and what was better, or worse, no wo- 
man, young or old, seemed to be needed there. A cleaner, 
neater cottage, inside and out, was not to be found in the par- 
ish; nor a more expert housekeeper than the old broom-maker, 
Nathan Wass. Eighty years of lonely bachelorhood had made 
him nimble and dexterous in those feminine arts and mysteries 
that are the admiration and despair of the spear-side of a prop- 
erly constituted household. He could bake bread and boil 
potatoes better than nineteen-twentieths of the women of Voe. 
He could wash, starch, and iron, blacklead a grate and polish 
an oak chair until he could behold in them the color of his 
hair and the shape of his nose. He could sew and knit, he 
could make jams and jellies and pickles, and wines from the 
cowslip and the elderberry. He could brew a dish of tea fit 
for a Chinese mandarin to drink ; could make delicious pikelets ; 
and as for toast and butter, not a woman in Voe could hold a 
candle to him. In toast and butter the broom-maker was an 
artist — in large type. It was no hardship to board and lodge 
with old Nathan. He took huge delight in training Abel in 
all the wise and subtile ways of housewifery. 

“Happen, lad, thou art cut out for a lone life like me, and 
it’s as well to know how to fend for yoursen. And if ye marry, 
it’s just as well to know, when the wife goes astray, how to 
set her to rights. Nay, lad, get a fork to them taters, if ye’d 
have ’em floury. Beat ’em with a spoon, and they’ll hang 
together like a lump of putty.” 

In this style the old man taught his pupil, and Socrates had 
not a better. Tea over and the things cleared away, Nathan 


A BUD OF MYSTERY 


153 


came and sat outside the cottage door and filled his little black 
pipe. The sun, a great red globe, lay right on the top of the 
steep, black-faced cliff in front. 

“ It looks as how it might come a-rolling down the cliff right 
on the top of us,” observed Nathan, as Abel came out and stood 
leaning against the stone porch. 

“ Happen if we dug a hole for it to get through, it might 
take to coming down this side of the slope of an evening, 
instead of going down on the other side.” 

“ A dangerous hole, lad, on a dark night.” 

“The thing to do would be to wait till the moon came down 
after the sun, and then as she popped in — board her.” 

“ Happen there ’ud be no jumping-off place on the other 
side.” 

“Then I’d hang on and explore till she came round to the 
getting-on place again.” 

“ Ha! well, he’s gone now, and it’ll soon be dark down here. 
A wonderful thing is the light, lad. I mind me that old Par- 
son Gell said one Sunday in church — it’s o’er fifty years sen, 
but it seems as if it might ha’ been only last year. I’ve thought 
on it many and many’s the time. A mighty scholard was the 
old parson! ’Twas said he knowed all that was in the books, 
and a nation lot beside. Says he — I remember of his words as 
well as if he’d spoke ’em on Sunday, and he’s been dead this 
two-and-forty year, come next October. Says he : 

Friends, there are idols and idols, false gods and false 
gods. Not every idol has been base, not every false god has 
been wicked. Think of the sun in his strength — what a splen- 
did idol! We are tempted to think there was something 
splendid in the character of the old Persians, who, being 
pagans, chose the sun as their god.’ 

“ Not a word, lad, have I heard about it sen, but it struck 
me like a flash of lightning when he said that folk once wor- 
shipped the sun as God. It’s never been quite the same to me 
sen. Sometimes I’m a kind of sorry for him. Thinks I, He's 
a dead God ’, and now Parson Gell is gone , no man minds it i?i 
Voe but me. But there! why art standing, lad?” said Nathan 
in a peculiar low tone. He was not sure whether he had taken 
Abel along with him in sympathy, and was half ashamed of 
having unveiled the bright secret he had guarded for half a 
century. 

“ I must be starting soon. I’m going back to the smithy for 
a while. Mr. Kneebone wants me for something.” 

“ Dost alleys Mister him, lad? Thou didstna use to Mister 
thy other master.” 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


*54 

“ Well, no. Jack Wragg was Jack Wragg. A very different 
kind of man to this one.” 

“ A better workman, happen — eh ? ” 

“ Maybe he was ; but he was a workman, and somehow Mr. 
Kneebone isn’t.” 

“Thou dost the work and he looks on? But there! stick up 
for him, lad. He did the fair thing by thee. Dost get on 
well together?” 

“Oh, yes! first-rate. I like him— more than I know why. 
There’s something about him that wins a fellow. They are 
getting to know him and like him better in the village, too. 
It’s no light job to stand in Jack Wragg’s shoes, you know.” 

“ Thou art right, lad. Jack Wragg was a sort of old institoo- 
tion, passed on from father to son; and everybody knowed 
everything about it. But this un is a sort of a new and strange 
invention; and how it’ll work in the long run, the Lord only 
knows! ” And Nathan shook his white poll dubiously. 

“ I’ll bet on its working all right. If you doubt a man be- 
cause he’s a new-comer, you may as well think the world is 
going to the dogs because the old men are dying off and the 
young ones are coming to the front.” 

“And happen it is,” replied Nathan, with an amused chuckle. 
“Hast learnt anything about his history?” he asked. 

“ No, next to nothing. He isn’t a free talker about himself; 
and as far as I’m concerned he can take his own time. He is 
a good man, of that I’m sure; and I’m thinking I’m in luck 
to have him for my friend.” 

“He’ll alleys have my good word, for one, lad. And if the 
parish axes me why, I’ll say so much as this: furstly, he be- 
friended thee, lad, like a man; and next, because, if rumor 
isna an out-and-out liar, thy uncle, the miller, hates him like 
pison. Lad, it’s a hard thing to say of thy poor father's 
brother, but when I know of his hating a man I want no better 
rayson for being that man’s friend. I’d as soon say it to his 
face as behind his back,” cried the old man, sitting bolt up in 
his arm-chair, and frowning fiercely. A placid old lion was 
Nathan — genial, and apt to think pleasant thoughts and say 
pleasant things about most folks, always barring the miller. 
For him his word was always sharp and bitter, and full of 
undying antagonism. 

“Let him be, Nathan, for my father’s sake,” said Abel 
quietly. 

The old man sank back in his chair, and all his fierceness 
vanished in a moment. He knocked out the ashes from his 
half-smoked pipe, which had gone out, put in some fresh to- 


A BUD OF* MYSTERY 


bacco, and having started it going again he looked up at Abel 
and said: 

“ Hast heard the news about thy cousin Ruth ? ” 

“Oh, yes! the place is full of it. What do you think about 
it, Nathan?” 

“It’s none o’ my business, lad, or I might be minded to 
observe that print gown matched wi’ broadcloth suits but 
, ill.” 

“Happen you are right, in the main; but as far as Ruth 
Boden is concerned, she’s good enough girl for any man’s wife, 
peer or ploughman.” 

“ I wouldna be the man to gainsay that, though it’s little I 
know of her. It isna ‘goodness ’ I’m thinking on, however. 
Th’ barn-door fow’s a better bird to my thinkin’ than th’ 
begemmed peacock; but they dunna mate. Like to like, says 
I; gentle wi’ gentle, an’ simple wi’ simple.” 

“Well, there’s nothing to fret about in this case. As it 
happens, it’s all gammon — I mean Ruth isn’t engaged to Mr. 
Phythian. Only don’t go talking about it, please. I don’t 
want you to know more about it than the general report goes.” 

“ By the same token, thy wit outstrips the common talk — 
eh, lad?” 

“ Happen it does, but it’s a secret.” 

“ A secret, eh ? And thou knowest it ? Happen Gentleman 
Phythian whispered it in thy ear; or the maid hersen ? Or, 
liker still, th’ miller, thy loving uncle, towd thee! ! ! Lad, 
lad! which on us is it that’s green, me or thee?” and Nathan 
shook his venerable head and smiled a superior smile. 

The blood crept slowly into Abel’s beautiful dark-skinned 
face, and he pulled his long mustache in a nervous manner. 
“I didn’t know before that you thought me a braggart, Na- 
than,” said Abel, after a silence of some length. 

His voice, more than his words, caused Nathan to turn half 
round in his chair, so as to get a full view of his face. 

“I’m no such a fool as to call thee a braggart, lad. If I 
wanted to lie about thee I wouldna go about it in that clumsy 
style. I’d get howd of a bit o’ rayal truth that everybody, 
thysen into the bargain, knowed to be such; an’ I’d twist it, 
lad, from a straight line into a sort o’ corkscrew. Then I’d 
stick it into thee, and bore away until I’d a hole big enow to 
howd my fist. I didna mean to hurt thy feelings, lad. Thou 
knowst that well enow. It was on’y my stupid way of letting 
thee know that my eyes wunna carry through a stone wa’,” 
said Nathan, slowly and with compunction in his tones. 

“ What’s the stone wall ? ” inquired Abel. 


156 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“ How come ye to know the ins and outs of this affair atwixt 
Gentleman Phythian and thy cousin? Happen it's on’y a 
mighty close hedge, and no stone wa’ at all ; but I canna see 
through it." 

Abel laughed lightly, but said nothing. Presently he sighed 
deeply, but still said nothing. Nathan smoked on in silence, 
thinking his own thoughts, which wandered far and wide from 
the subject in hand; but he would come back again in a trice, 
when Abel was ready, and carry on the talk as if his mind had 
never left it. 

“ Nathan." 

The old man looked up quickly and said, “Well, lad?" 

“ I am going to tell you a secret.” 

“ By the same token, I’ll keep it warm and dry for thee." 

“ Thank you. If I haven’t told you before, it wasn’t because 
I couldn’t trust you. You know that, don’t you ? ’’ 

“ It ’ud be a sore grief to me, lad, ever to think ye couldna 
trust me. I wouldna think it till ye towd me so yoursen; and 
certainly not because ye thought fit to housen thy own secret 
in thy own heart. I’m listening, lad." 

“To begin, then, Mr. Phythian wanted to court my cousin 
Ruth, but she said him nay. Why she said him nay was a 
secret she dare not tell to the miller, who was set on her hav- 
ing Mr. Phythian. The upshot was, that she put the case 
before Mr. Phythian, who did his best to get her out of the 
difficulty. So now the miller thinks that the thing is working 
itself into ship-shape, and that there will soon follow a regular 
engagement, and probably a quick wedding. Happen he’s 
counting his chickens before they’re hatched. He’s gone and 
given out that they are engaged to be married, or what amounts 
to the same thing, and that troubles me sore. It has put them 
both in a curious position — one that can’t hold long, I’m 
thinking." 

“And that troubles thee sore, eh?" inquired Nathan 
abruptly. 

“ Well, yes, it does." 

“All right, lad! Go on." 

But Abel stood fingering his mustache, and seemed in no 
haste to proceed with his narrative. 

“Hast done, lad?" asked Nathan presently. 

“ Not quite. I may as well go on, though, I reckon, now 
I’ve begun. Could you guess why she refused Mr. Phythian ? " 
said Abel. 

“ Happen I could, an I tried. I’d rather not try, though." 

“ She cares for — somebody else." 


A BUD OF MYSTERY 


157 


Another pause followed, broken at length by Nathan remark- 
ing, “I’m hearkening, lad.” 

“ It’s me, Nathan.” 

“What! thee lovest thy cousin Ruth?” cried Nathan, sud- 
denly rising from his chair and staring at Abel in astonishment. 

“Yes; and what’s better, she cares for me. I thought it 
would surprise you.” 

“ Surprise me, lad! It’s naught to be glad on. It’s summat 
to be ashamed on,” cried Nathan, greatly excited. 

“ How’s that?” 

“Thou canst never marry her, lad — never! Hast never 

heard of the feud atwixt her father and thy own?” 

“Happen it’s time the breach was healed, Nathan. There’s 
been enough damage done as it is.” 

“ Happen again it isna in thy power to heal it, lad. Sen 
when has the miller ceased hatin’ thee or thy poor father? If 
they met to-night the miller ’ud cuss him outen his sight. 
What ’ud thy poor father say if he knowed, dost think?” 

“ I don’t know, Nathan. Would you have me think my 
father harbors hate and ill-will like the miller? If he ever 
comes back again, don’t you think the first thing he will do 
will be to ask the miller to forgive him for throwing him down 
the quarry ? ” 

“ So in that affair thee thinkest thy father was in the wrong, 
dost?” inquired Nathan, his voice trembling with scorn and 
rage. 

“I wish to heaven I could think otherwise.” 

“Oh, indeed! An’ so thee takest sides agen thy father, it 
seems! Look here! When he turns up some day he will want 
to know who’s had the training o’ thee. Say! didst ever gather 
it from Nathan Wass that thy father was in the wrong?” de- 
manded the old man, with contempt in every tone and gesture. 

“Come, Nathan! don’t let us quarrel, especially about my 
father,” said Abel gently. 

“Speak me yea or nay! Didst ever gather it from me that 
thy father was in the wrong?” 

“ No, indeed. You know that well enough; but others " 

“All right! He’ll know then that I bain’t to blame. Thou’st 
gathered the pison not from my plot.” 

“ For the matter of that, I never heard any one say my father 
was in the wrong. They think he served the miller right. 
That’s simply because they do not like the miller. I cannot 
go so far as that. Right or wrong as he may have been in the 
quarrel, when he threw the miller over the cliff my father was 
in the wrong. He might have killed him outright.” 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


158 

“Ei, ei, my lad! very fine raysoning! It’s the owd, owd 
story of a wench’s witchcraft. Thou ’udst rayson thy father 
out to be a murderer; and why? To excuse thy love of a 
wench! But atwixt thee and her there’s blood, lad; and ye 
canna cross it, either on ye. Thy poor dead father mun come 
back first. Yea, dally wi’ her on the sly; court and kiss her, 
and fool yersen wi’ pretty dreams; but ye wunna wed. Atwixt 
thee and her there’s blood.” And Nathan turned into the cot- 
tage and left Abel standing alone 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE BUD OPENS 

The twilight had vanished, and under the elm in front of 
the smithery the gloom was so dense that when Abel came up 
he did not observe Kneebone, who was sitting on a bench 
against the tree, waiting for his arrival. 

“You are a trifle lafe, aren’t you?” 

“Holloa! are you there? Yes, I’m afraid I am. I got 
talking with Nathan, and the time went by quicker than I 
thought for,” answered Abel. 

Kneebone wondered what made the lad’s voice so sad. 

“You didn’t know that I was a thought-reader, did you?” 
he said, in his half-serious and half-ironical manner. 

“ No, I can’t say that I did.” 

“Well, I am. Sometimes I can spell rather than read; but 
when the inspiration comes I can read off thought like print. 
I guess I’m inspired now.” 

“ What makes you think so ? ” said Abel, almost languidly. 
He was scarcely in the mood for a jest. 

“You have been talking about your father, and as usual the 
subject has given you a fit of the blues. Lad, when will you 
learn wisdom, and make a bargain with your silly tongue to 
reckon him for good and aye to be — unspeakable ? ” 

A bitter laugh broke from Abel. “ Which means,” continued 
Kneebone, “ that you intend to keep on thinking about him 
every day, and talking about him just as often as you feel like 
getting drunk on misery. I don’t deny the pleasure there is 
in getting drunk on sorrow and woe. A good many folk tipple 
at it, and get a sort of happiness out of it. God knows I’m 
sorry for the poor things; but, lad, there’s no mistake about 
it, they are fools for their pains. Don’t you be one of them. 
If your father fretted about you, you would soon either see 
him or hear from him. If he’s dead — well, blessed are the 
dead! But he’s none dead; he is only counting on you being 
like him — a philosopher.” 

“Yes, I have played the philosopher to some purpose. 
Earned his curse, Nathan says.” 


l6o THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 

“What’s that you say? There, hold on a minute; I haven’t 
done thought-reading yet. You have been talking with the 
patriarch about a — a certain phantom of delight, and he thinks 
if that precious father of yours only knew, he would empty a 
cartload of deep and strange curses upon you. ” 

“ He says there is blood between us — that we can never 
wed. I don’t know what he means. I feel there is some 
mystery at the back of it; but I cannot think with Na- 
than. From all I have ever heard of my father, and of 
what happened on that terrible day, I feel sure he would re- 
joice that the feud didn’t carry over to the children. It was 
not in him to dig an impassable gulf of hate. I am his son. 
I have his very being in me. I have watched myself for 
years, day and night, to discover what in me was native to 
him and what was foreign to him. And I say solemnly I do 
not believe that it was in him to frown on our love for each 
other. Yet Nathan says there is blood between us.” 

There followed silence. In the darkness they could not see 
a feature of each other’s face; yet both men were tingling with 
emotion. Their hands went out, and met in a strong clasp for 
a few seconds. Then they drew apart. 

Said Kneebone, in the same equivocal manner as before, 
save that his voice was a trifle shaky, “I guess I will have a 
talk with the patriarch, and let him see the difference between 
an inspired man and himself. Happen I’ll teach him to read 
thought; and then I’ll wager a thousand to one he will agree 
with me that the chances are that the father speaks in the 
accents of the son. We will go into the shop now, lad.” 

They went in, and while Abel lighted a couple of lamps, 
often needed in the winter season, Kneebone closed the large 
doors and fastened them on the inside. The yellow smoky 
glare of the lamps did little else than make visible the dark- 
ness which lurked round the narrow circles of dim radiance 
and curled itself up in a thick cloud among the naked rafters 
of the lofty roof. As through a mist Abel saw his companion 
take off his coat and roll up his shirt-sleeves. He evidently 
meant work; so Abel followed his example as to coat and 
sleeves, and put on his leather apron. 

“ Those lamps don’t understand their business, but perhaps 
if we took them in hand a bit they might learn it. I’ll try 
the fire.” Saying which, Kneebone went to the huge bellows, 
and taking in both hands the beautifully polished ox-horn that 
formed the end of the long handle he began to blow with a 
steady downward pressure and with no bending of the back. 
And no magician with his wand ever wrought a more wonderful 


THE BUD OPENS 


161 


effect than did the blacksmith of Voe with that long wooden 
pole tipped with horn; for as it moved up and down, the famil- 
iar yet ever-mysterious spirit of heat and light issued from its 
secret hiding-place, and unveiled its fiery splendor until the 
rude and grimy smithy glowed like a temple with the reflected 
glory of its god. 

The world has seen the time when Kneebone with his bellows 
and his furnace would have formed the sublime and mysterious 
centre-piece of a national act of worship; when the wisdom 
and the worth of the race would have gazed in solemn awe 
and fearful delight at the man who could evoke a thing so 
strange, so lovely, and so masterful as the spirit of the flame. If 
it were not such a silly thing to do, and the doing of which 
would expose us to the claws of the gentle and wise creature 
who dwells “ on the top of a snowy mountain in Nova Zembla,” 
we should like to ask, for the sake of information, whether or 
not in this current year of grace the fire spirit keeps its ancient 
heart of mystery, as it has kept its godlike purity of face? 
Because, if the wonder still remains, it seems a pity that we 
have lost the faculty of wonder, and can no longer say, with 
the old knightly physician of Norwich town, ‘I love to lose 
myself in a mystery, to pursue my reason to an O! Altitudo ! 

The furnace soon began to glow and send out flames that 
lit up the smithery from ground to roof. Abel sat on the anvil 
watching Kneebone, who presently ceased blowing and leaned 
against the bellows, with his hands in his pockets, and looked 
with an amused expression of countenance at Abel. 

“I suppose Jack Wragg was a first-rate hand at his work, 
from all I hear,” observed Kneebone. 

“ He ought to have been, at any rate. Father, grandfather, 
great-grandfather, great-great-grandfather, great-great-great- 
grandfather — all were Jack Wraggs, and every one of them a 
smith. Jack took to it like a duck to water. At the agri- 
cultural show they give prizes for shoeing. When it was 
first started, Jack went in, and, for five years running, he 
won the first prize. Nobody could stand against him. The 
fifth year found only one smith in all Peakshire who would 
compete with him. After that some gentleman came to see 
him privately, and told him that they were all very proud 
of him, and thought the world of his skill, but he mustn’t 
compete any more; if he did, they would have to give up 
the competition altogether. Next year the placards an- 
nounced that the competition was open to all in the county 
— 4 Except Mr. John Wragg of Voe , the champion blacksmith of 
Peakshire . ’ Jack was mighty pleased; all the same, he was 
ii 


162 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


angry, especially at their printing him as ‘Mr. John Wragg. ’ 
Said he: ‘They’ve gone an’ put a mask on to me face, the 
blackguards! I’m no John; I was christened Jack, like me 
forbears afore me for as many generations as I’ve fingers o’ me 
right hand. Can any good Christen tell me wheer a Mr. John 
Wragg of Voe lives? Oh, the blackguards, to go an’ ca’ a man 
names like that! ’ ” 

Abel mimicked Jack Wragg’s manner and tone capitally. 

Kneebone laughed aloud. Then he said: “Did I dream it 
or was I told, lad, that at two of these annual competitions, 
the first prize was carried off not long since by a young fellow 
named — Abel Boden ? ” 

At this Abel flushed quickly, and kicking his heels against 
the anvil, answered laughingly, “ Happen it is, sir.’’ 

“Well, my lad, let me tell you I was greatly pleased to hear 
of it. I kind o’ like the best of the kind, always.” 

“It’s but a poor kind, though, at its best.” 

“ Maybe you would rather take a prize for beetles or moths 
or other kinds of vermin, than for horse-shoeing. Well, it’s a 
matter of taste, lad. And I’m free to say so much to your 
face as this: If you went in for natural history as a vocation, 
I’d back you to win. And why ? Because you have done your 
duty by a trade which, I gather, you follow more for daily 
bread than for hourly love. Keep a stout heart, and happen 
the day will come when you will beat your last tattoo on the 
anvil, and after that you’ll be able to cultivate your precious 
vermin. By the by, Abel, I’ve got most of my books into 
their places now. You must come up and look at them some 
evening. Happen you’ll find a volume or two that will inter- 
est you.” 

Abel was not backward with his thanks: he had been looking 
forward with eagerness to seeing Kneebone’s books; but chiefly 
was he grateful just now for that kindly prophecy of Knee- 
bone’s anent the last tattoo on the anvil. What connection 
there was between the coming of that glad day and the keeping 
of a stout heart; or why that day should not come on the mor- 
row as well as in five years’ time; or why that day should ever 
come, seeing there was nothing in existence to foreshadow it, 
— these all were dark points to Abel. Still, he was grateful to 
Kneebone for his hopeful words. There is magic, strange and 
blessed magic, in mere words of sympathy and cheer and hope*, 
known is this fact of all such as are despondent, as are baffled, 
as are fighting a good but as yet doubtful fight, as are watch- 
ing, waiting, listening like Sisera’s mother at her lattice-win- 
dow, peradventure for chariots of victory that will never arrive. 


THE BUD OPENS 


163 


When the struggle is over and the man emerges victorious, he 
is borne along in a whirlwind of applause that only gives him 
a wretched headache; while but yesterday and the strife was 
on, not tears of blood could win for him the mildest zephyr of 
a hurrah, or a passing whiff of a cheer. 

This is odd unless we bear in mind that while it is always 
safe — and perhaps prudent — to cheer a conqueror, it is risking 
our reputation for sagacity to put our hands together in a clap 
for a man who, though fighting bravely, may have the misfor- 
tune to be worsted in the event, and whom, of course, we should 
have to kick when down. Looked at in this way — that is to 
say, fairly and reasonably — we can recognize the wise and 
kindly forethought that' makes rare as snow in harvest the de- 
lusive and uncertain words of sympathy and cheer and hope. 
It is only superficial and imperfectly informed persons that 
doubt the deep morality underlying the system of rewards and 
punishments, as administered by every civilized community. 

Kneebone was — well, not a savage exactly, but imperfectly 
civilized; and by the same token, he cheered a fellow like mad 
when his adversary had him on one knee; and when a poor 
devil limped away sore and beaten, he would not even kick 
him. Kneebone had never heard of him in his life, but that 
bluff and doughty knight at Worms, who laid his iron-gloved 
hand on Luther as he passed, and said: “Cheer up, and keep a 
stout heart, little monk ” — was an ancestor of the Blacksmith 
of Voe; like Kneebone, he was of the clan of the Imperfectly 
Civilized. 

The ruddy glow of the fire was dying out again, so Kneebone 
went to work with the bellows once more. Presently he turned 
to Abel and said: “I think one of us ought to go in and try for 
another prize this year. What sort of innings do you think I 
should make?” 

Abel looked at him with open eyes, and then laughed heartily. 

Kneebone looked preternatural ly grave at this, and said: 
“Of course I don’t pretend to be a Jack Wragg; and he’s dead, 
you see, so I shouldn’t have to face him.” 

“No, sir, but there are some handy fellows left,” replied 
Abel. He tried his best not to laugh, and only succeeded in 
horribly distorting his beautiful face. 

“Why, hang it, man, that’s frank and no mistake! Ain’t I 
handy? Haven’t you seen me work the bellows?” 

“Yes, sir; and you do it very well, too.” 

“ Haven’t you seen me use the monkey-wrench?” 

“Yes; to put on a couple of nuts on a plough. You screwed 
them on nicely, sir.” 


164 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“I’ve struck for you, haven’t I?” 

“Once; but you didn’t hit the metal in the same spot twice 
together. Once you struck the anvil, which jarred your hand 
nearly off, and once you fell foul o’ the tongs, which nearly 
broke my wrist.” 

“Pshaw! what has that to do with it? I struck twenty-nine 
times — I counted them — and I might have struck the tongs 
twenty-nine times, but I didn’t. I only struck them once. 
Well, what else have I done? Oh, I know. Haven’t you seen 
me pull an old shoe off?” 

“ If I recollect right, sir, it was Farmer Yeo’s gray mare, 
and ” Here Abel stopped, choked with laughter. 

Kneebone waited with a grave countenance, until he had re- 
covered himself, and then he said, with a flash that may have 
been humor in his eyes: “I know what you would say: the car- 
nivorous brute suddenly bit me — nevermind where — and I fled, 
leaving the shoe dangling by three nails. I’ll admit that I 
didn’t venture again within range of that man-eating quadru- 
ped’s jaws. What then? The job would have been finished 
if I hadn’t left it undone; and finished neatly, too. As i drew 
the old nails, I laid them carefully in a row. In truth, I was 
just counting them with lawful pride and pleasure when the 
brute assaulted me. There, there, laugh it out, lad; from an 
outside view it’s funny, I know, barring the teeth.” And put- 
ting his hands on his knees, Kneebone bent himself like Abel 
nearly double, and the two men roared at each other with 
laughter. 

“Well,” said Kneebone, when it was all over, “I feel better 
for that. It’s many a year since I cried with laughing. And 
now, lad, I’m going to put a precious thing into your keeping.” 

“And what may that be?” inquired Abel. 

“ Nothing less than my reputation. Do you think it will be 
safe in your hands?” 

“I don’t think it will suffer; though I’d much rather you 
would keep it in your own hands, sir.” 

“You are not over eager for the responsibility, eh?” 

“I can’t say that I am, unless I can do you a service there- 
by. In that case, I’m at your service now and always.” 

“ Thank you. Spoken like a man. If my reputation took 
the form of a bag of diamonds, I could trust you, lad, just the 
same. I’ve wondered a good many times how I impressed you 
as a working blacksmith. And to-night I’ve found out.” 

“ Happen I’ve been more frank than polite, sir?” 

“ Nay, you have been polite enough. You saw the thing as 
something to laugh at, and you laughed at it. I guess I did 


THE BUD OPENS 


i6 5 

the same. Better laugh than cry, any day. The truth is, lad, 
I’m no blacksmith. All I know about it I’ve picked up since 
I came here.” 

“Why, what on earth do you mean?” exclaimed Abel, in 
huge astonishment. 

“Just what I say. I couldn’t make a shoe if you’d give me 
a hundred pounds to do it; and as for shoeing a horse, well, I 
guess I could fix a shoe on if the nails would hold, but whether 
the animal would be able to walk after, this deponent saith 
not.” 

“If that doesn’t beat anything I ever heard! ” What did you 
buy the smithy for, if you couldn’t work it?” 

“ The smithy be hanged! I didn’t want it, the Lord knows. 
I had a notion of settling in Voe, and the only place in the 
market happened to carry with it the village smithy and some 
land by the river-side, neither of which I wanted. However, 
they took me for a smith, and I thought I’d be one just to 
oblige them. If you had left me, though, I should have shut 
up shop.” 

“ Oh, if Jack Wragg only knew! ” said Abel, laughing. 

“I am not afraid of Jack Wragg; he’s dead, you know, but 
a living dog is worse than a dead lion. Jack’s friends and 
neighbors are yet alive, and I’m thinking if they knew ” 

“ It would travel up the valley and across the hills in no 
time, and would get into the weekly papers. We should never 
hear the last of it. Happen some of them would be after mak- 
ing it warm for you, Mr. Kneebone.” 

“I’m not afraid of that, lad — I mean, their making it warm 
for me. As for the talk — well, I’m not afraid of that, either, 
though I’d much rather it didn’t happen. I want to keep 
quiet. Make it warm for me, indeed! I lived too long in re- 
gions where a man has to be his own law-maker, policeman, 
judge, jury, jailer, and hangman, to fear any fire they can 
kindle.” 

“ Ay, but you are in Old England now, where you can’t take 
the law into your own hands like that.” 

“Well, then, lad, I’d fight them with the law.” 

“ That takes money, and plenty of it. Happen the miller, 
to spite you, would find the funds for your enemies?” 

At this suggestion Kneebone tugged at his chestnut beard, 
and an angry light shone in his kindly gray eyes. “Then it 
would be a matter of which had the deepest pocket.” 

“ I’m afraid in that case you’d lose.” 

“Happen not,” growled Kneebone. 

Never before had Abel seen him so angry. 


1 66 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“We will hope it won’t come to the trial, any way. I don’t 
see why outsiders need ever know anything. You’ve got 
through the worst of it, and nobody now doubts you are a reg- 
ular blacksmith.” 

But Kneebone was on the war-path now, and was not to be 
turned aside. “ I’m not afraid of its coming to the trial to- 
morrow. He has tried his game once, on the hillside; and 
happen he thinks he won, because I choose to let the thing lie 
quiet. But let him try his hand again! Money, indeed! 
What’s he worth? A paltry five thousand pounds, maybe.” 

“ They say he’s worth from twelve to fifteen thousand. He 
got all Miller Duckmanton’s pile.” 

“All right; give him the benefit of the doubt, and call it fif- 
teen. And just to make sure we are not undervaluing him, 
we’ll add another five, and call it twenty. He’s worth twenty 
thousand pounds, is he?” 

“I didn’t say so,” answered Abel, a little injudiciously. 

“ Damn it, sir, but I say so, and it shall stand. He’d fight 
me with twenty thousand pounds, would he? Then I’d fight 
him pound for pound; and when the first twenty thousand has 
gone, I’ve got another twenty to fight with, ay — and another 
twenty to follow that. And by Heaven! if ever we get going, 
if it’s money that’s wanted, I’ll beat him, if it takes nigher 
seventy than sixty thousand to do it. Yes, sirree, the Black- 
smith of Voe is a better man than the miller any day, though” 
— (a long pause, and then) — “the Blacksmith is an ass, a 
stupid, braying ass, when his monkey is once up. And Abel, 
lad, it isn’t worth while remembering anything a donkey 
says.” 

“Well, I don’t know that. When Balaam’s donkey fell a- 
talking, they thought it worth while to report his observa- 
tions,” said Abel, with a laugh. 

“ He was a Scriptural character, and I’m not, which makes 
all the difference; to say nothing of the number of legs he car- 
ried, which is unusual in a talker. Lad, as you love your life, 
keep a still tongue in your head. I meant to keep it silent as 
the grave. You see you’ve got a couple of items to guard now. 
You’ve got my reputation in charge with a vengeance. Luck- 
ily, you don’t get drunk and blab.” 

Kneebone began working the bellows again, while Abel said: 
“ I can take in that you’re no blacksmith fairly easy, now 
you’ve told me so. You left me to do all the real work; but 
you paid me well, and I concluded you had had about enough 
of work in your time, and meant to take it easy in future. The 
odd jobs you did showed you were not in practice, at any rate; 


THE BUD OPENS 167 

and to tell you the truth, I didn’t think you’d ever been much 
of a workman. All that I can take in, I say, but ” 

He paused, and Kneebone said: “ Go on, lad, and but away.” 

“What am I to think about this sixty thousand pound talk?” 

“Think what you like.” 

“ By the same token, it was only tall talk, then. You’ll ex- 
cuse me, sir, I know, but I hope to goodness you will never 
get wroth with the miller — in public company.” 

“What’s your meaning, lad? Out with it!” 

“ They might misunderstand you. They haven’t travelled 
like you, sir, and they are not used to that kind of tall talk. 
In their own way, their talk will top the hills, but yours ” 

“ Knocks its nose against the moon in mid-heaven, eh ? 
Didn’t I tell you I kind o’ liked the best of every kind going? 
But — I’m going to do a bit of butting on my own account now, 
lad — but there are two kinds of tall talk, I’m thinking: One is 
founded on fancy pure and simple. The ornamental liar runs 
that kind of store. The other sort of tall talk is founded on 
the bed-rock of solid fact; but it is built always by silly van- 
ity or by sillier anger, and its proprietor and tenant is assur- 
edly a bottomless ass. Do you catch on?” inquired Kneebone. 
It was not often that his Americanism cropped out, but just 
now it was very strong. 

“Yes, I think so. You mean there is a vein of truth in what 
you said ? ” 

“That and something more. It’s more than a vein, lad. If 
the truth must out, the whole stratum is genuine truth.” 

“You are worth sixty thousand pounds?” cried Abel in un- 
disguised amazement. 

“Yes, I am, and more, too; but not a word, lad, mind you! 
Keep it like the grave. Some day I’ll tell you all about it. 
Now, lad, it’s getting late, and we can’t be here all night. I 
got the squire to lend me that horse there, and what I want 
you to do is to teach me to-night how to make a shoe, and how 
to put it on when it’s made. If I’m to play smith, I must 
know something of the game. Happen I’ll be an apt scholar, 
lad.” 


CHAPTER XX 


A WITNESS TELLS HIS TALE 

There had been no rain to speak of since Christmas, and the 
merry month of May was at the threshold. Snow there had 
been and plenty of it, and sleet, and hail; but of genuine rain 
there had been none. The Voese made no count, in this reck- 
oning, of a few passing showers that were licked up by the 
thirsty earth ere the clouds that had dropped them had crossed 
the hills; nor did they condescend to remember the week of 
days during which time the tops of the hills and the bottoms of 
the valleys were hidden from sight in a gray, fog-like mist, 
that surreptitiously wet one to the skin in no time. No need 
of rain, forsooth, when the kindly clouds lower themselves 
bodily to the earth, and tarry for the space of forty-eight hours 
at a stretch, turning the world into a vapor-bath, and trans- 
forming men and women into ridiculous aquatic animals with 
umbrellas and overcoats. But all this was not rain — any Voe 
man knew that. Says Mamma Frog, popping up her head out 
of the pond, to her children playing on the banks in the rain, 
My dears, my dears, come in out of the rain. You will get 
wet! So would a mother at Voe call to her offspring to come 
in, should a passing cloud drop water, though she herself were 
half drowned in the belly of a rain-blown cloud that was mas- 
querading below in the disguise of an innocent mist. 

But now at last the rain had come; it was the genuine article, 
and there was any quantity of it. It was beginning to spit 
when Abel left the smithery, and by the time he reached home 
he was drenched through and through. It rained all night, 
and all the next day. This would not have mattered much, 
but that Nathan had a plan in his head which the rain pre- 
vented him from carrying out. His back was still straight, his 
vision keen, his teeth sound, and his step firm; but he was 
eighty-one next birthday, had joints and muscles, and had to be 
ever on the alert, especially in damp weather, to circumvent that 
diabolical body-twister yclept rheumatism. Nathan had been 
pretty successful so far in eluding his great enemy; but old 
age was creeping upon him, and the foe, audacius subsistere , be- 


A WITNESS TELLS HIS TALE 


169 


gan to engage him more frequently in battle. To save him- 
self from warping, he had to keep himself dry on wet days; so 
Nathan sat working in his warm and snug little shop at the 
back of the cottage, and growled at the weather. 

Toward night the clouds lightened, and the pelting rain gave 
place to drizzling mist. This was the state of affairs when 
Nathan looked out just before going to bed. In the morning 
he opened his eyes and expected to see the sun; but no sun was 
visible, and he heard the rain coming down as in the days of 
Noah. So it went on all that day and the next, and on the 
morning of the fourth day, lo! it rained as vigorously and joy- 
ously as when it first began. Then was Nathan exceeding 
wroth, and with his glance fixed on the opened windows of 
heaven, wanted to know “ what th’ dooce was the use of a rain- 
bow if it was only to deceive plain, honest country folk, and 
get ’em to forego the craft o’ ship-building?” He struck 
work, as a kind of protest, and went about the house and did 
nothing but growl and growl and growl ; and being a righteous 
man according to his lights, his prayers were heard, and the 
open windows of heaven were three parts shut. After his mid- 
day dinner, Nathan looked out, and though it was still raining 
lightly, through a rift in the clouds he caught a glimpse of the 
sun, which seemed, he thought, to turn sick and pale with very 
shame at sight of an honest man’s eye, and to plunge headlong 
behind the clouds. 

“ It’s now or never. If I don’t go now, happen I’ll be found 
like a drownded rat dead in me hole, when the waters abate,” 
murmured Nathan, as he came out and locked the door after 
him. 

In dry weather Voe can boast some of the finest roads in the 
kingdom, and in wet some of the vilest. They were wet now, 
and Nathan found them vile beds of sticky mud. But, luckily, 
round about Voe there are always two or more ways of getting 
anywhere — a sign this of a region long inhabited. In the col- 
onies and other newly settled countries, nothing strikes an old- 
world man with a stranger sense of practical inconvenience 
than the total absence of footpaths, by-ways, and short cuts in 
general ; there humanity has not yet had time to show forth its 
instinctive love of deviating from the straight and broad high- 
way by innumerable little trails that run their zigzag course 
in all directions. A symbolist would say: These colonists are 
a straightforward folk, and move contentedly along the broad 
and open road of righteousness. But the realist would say: 
This is a people that valueth a whole skin, and forgetteth not 
that the landowners are rough on trespassers. 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


170 

Nathan, living in a district that was the ancient home of 
path-treaders so far back as the time when Julius Caesar came 
to Britain, was under no necessity of keeping to the public river 
of mud, and accordingly he took to the woods and the fields. 
But here, again, difficulties confronted him: he had escaped 
being bogged only to risk being drowned. Twice his path ran 
through “gentle dimplements,” which looked — in fine weather 

“ As if God’s finger touched, but did not press, 

In making England.” 

Just now, however, each dimple held — shall we say, a tear? 
Each tear like unto those that Neptune shed when he made the 
inland seas — a hundred hogsheads to the tear. Once the old 
man came to a spot that looked as if somebody’s finger, not to 
say fist, had pressed upon it pretty hard — this also was full of 
tears; and as the dell was walled with splintered crags, Nathan 
had to do a bit of nimble climbing. 

But worse than all were the streams, of which there were 
three or four to be crossed; they were small in body and loud 
in tongue as a general thing, and their tiny beds were between 
banks from two to three feet in height, covered with mosses, 
mother of thousands, liverwort, and other wild growths. To- 
day every rill was swollen to an able-bodied stream, and every 
stream had grown into a self-important river. The banks were 
flooded, the stepping-stones were swamped, and the one solitary 
foot-bridge showed to the eye nothing but a miraculous hand- 
rail socketed in running water. But Nathan was a son of the 
hills and the streams, and had seen the floods out more than 
once in the course of his long life. He had on long fishermen’s 
boots that reached up to his thighs; he knew every ford, step- 
ping-stone, and shallow of the Scarthin and all its tributaries 
within a dozen miles. So now, when there was nothing else 
for it, he went ploughing through the rushing waters as coolly 
as if he had been going through a field of standing corn. At 
length he entered a small park, and his pace slackened: in front 
of him was Carbel Chase, its gray stone face three parts cov- 
ered with ivy, closely cut and of vivid green. 

“ Happen it’s a foo’s errand I’m on. It’s a bold ’un, there’s 
no denying that. I mun save th’ lad if I can, for poor owd 
Abel’s sake. Drat it! thee art afraid o’ mortal man, Nathan 
Wass. Thee art a coward if thee dunna straighten thee back, 
strengthen thee joints, and mend thee pace a bit,” soliloquized 
Nathan. 

Apparently the self-imputation of cowardice stung him. He 
threw off in a dozen paces the weight of as many years, and 


A WITNESS TELLS HIS TALE 


171 

marched forward like a veteran. He was making his way 
round to the back of the house, when Balthasar Phythian 
stepped to the door of a long conservatory that ran the whole 
length of one side of the house, and accosted him. 

“ Do you wish to see me, Nathan?” inquired Balthasar. 

“Yes, sir,” answered Nathan, a little flurried at the unex- 
pected meeting, and touching his cap. 

“ Then come in here. I can swim, but I am liable to have 
cramp, and I have no desire to be drowned; so here I take my 
daily constitutional, and keep a lookout for the deluge. Yew- 
dle Brig is getting on swimmingly, I hear. They talk of get- 
ting up boat-races in the streets. How is it down at Voe?” 

“ Pretty well so far, sir, an’ thank you. The Scarthin’s riz 
pretty high, I see as I come along. Happen it’ll rise higher 
afore it goes down again.” 

“ I hardly think so. The glass is going up.” 

At this Nathan cast a reproachful look at the sky, as though 
it had been deceiving him with false signs. His confidence in 
his own natural barometer seemed, however, to be fully restored 
by this quick survey. 

“I’m mighty sorry for the glass, then, for the rain’s a-com- 
ing, certain sure, sir. Happen it’s a Lunnon glass, sir?” 

“Yes, I believe it is. What then?” 

“ Them foreign instruments are no good in Peakshire. Their 
insides binna right. What’s a Lunnoner to know o’ the 
weather-tokens o’ Voe?” 

“Not much, Nathan, you may be sure,” laughed Balthasar. 
He added: “There will be a flood, I fear, as it is. There has 
been a heavy downfall higher up the river, I’m told.” 

“Happen it’ll carry off a few lambs, or I dunna know it ’ud 
do much damage. If it’s got to come, better to get it o’er and 
done with afore harvest-time. I’ve seen hundreds o’ tons o’ 
new hay go swishing down the Scarthin like so much weed 
afore now.” 

“You mean the great flood fifty years ago?” 

“ Ay ; but that was a sight to see ! The meadows was washed 
bare of every living thing. Dozens of cattle and sheep went 
under Voe bridge that day. Talking about bridges, the river 
was full of ’em. It carried down nigh a score, as I recollect. 
We’ve had some stiff floods more than once sen then, but naught 
like unto that un, sir.” 

“And it is to be hoped we never shall have again.” 

“ So say I. Not but what there be worse things in the world 
nor floods. By the same token be feuds, to my thinking.” 

“Feuds? I expected fires and famines. Feuds are very 


172 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


small things nowadays, Nathan. We civilized men have had 
our claws pared so closely, and for so long a time, that we have 
none of the old-world passion left in us. Our hates are like 
our loves, our virtues like our vices— once strong now feeble, 
once colossal now pigmy, once sublime and now ridiculous. 
The best Christian in the Parish of Yewdle Brig or of Voe to- 
day does not, and for the life of him could not, hate anything 
or anybody in the fine, sweeping, untamed Satanic manner of 
— say the Scarthin when its back is up. No, sir. Give the 
devil his due — the flood before the feud.” 

“Happen, Mr. Phythian, you like the wickedest of the two? 
No offence, sir. It’s on’y a matter o’ taste,” said Nathan, 
with something of the sensation of a sudden gust of sleet, that 
well-nigh robbed him at a blast of both breath and eyesight. 

Balthasar’s dark eyes twinkled with humor. “ Right you 
are, Nathan. Of two wicked things, the wickeder is nine times 
out of ten the less stupid and the more interesting. I like 
things that are interesting. Therefore, for sheer interest, I 
would rather have a flood than a feud. Wouldn’t you?” 

“Why, yes, sir; that’s what I said at the start.” 

“ Ah, but for a different reason, Nathan. But one would 
think, to hear us talk, that Voe was a very undesirable place 
to dwell in. Whereas I imagine we both think alike, that it is 
full of delectable bowers, and sweet temples of faith and hope 
and charity. I venture to say, Nathan, that no man in Voe 
calls himself your enemy.” 

“As to that, I dunna know. I know there’s one man that 
Nathan Wass dunna call his friend. I never mak’ no mystery 
of his name, sir, and he knows it. It’s Luke Boden, miller 
an’ — farmer I’m thinking it is he likes to be called. Happen 
I could tack on summat after miller that ’ud roll smoother and 
soun’ wuss than that, if I tried,” said Nathan, in a tone that 
left nothing to be desired in the direction of dark significance. 
No babbler, boaster, or back-biting accuser was the tall, white- 
haired old broom-maker, whose eyes held an angry light just 
now. Balthasar knew this. 

“Why, man alive! ” he cried, in astonishment, “what do you 
mean? He might have committed murder, to hear you talk.” 

“Happen, if he had, you wouldna feel like ” 

“ Like what?” 

“ Nothing — naught, naught, sir. On’y me tongue is fleeter 
nor me wit. The one’s a full-grown loon, an’ t’other’s but a 
half-weaned baby, and it isna quite fair to run ’em side by side. 
Talking o’ th’ miller, minds me, sir, there’s a little matter I’d 
like to utter a few words on to you.” 


A WITNESS TELLS HIS TALE 


173 


“ I am at your service, Nathan.” 

“It’s on’y for your ear, sir,” said Nathan, looking about to 
see if any one was likely to be within earshot. 

“It’s all right. We are quite by ourselves,” answered Bal- 
thasar, beginning to feel curious. 

“ It’s anent the common fame, sir, of yourself and the miller’s 
daughter,” said Nathan, speaking slowly and gravely, and with 
a noticeable freedom from dialectical idiom, of which he could 
purge his speech when he cared to try. 

A look of surprise shot into the countenance of Balthasar, 
and at first he met Nathan’s glance with something that looked 
very much like angry pride. But it vanished in a few mo- 
ments, and his habitual expression of lurking humor came back 
as he said: 

“It is said, Nathan, that fame always among the gods tells 
truth. But she takes her revenge when she comes back among 
men. Do gods or men live at Voe? Men. She has been tak- 
ing her revenge among them, I fear.” 

“What the crowd says doesna mean (matter). I hanna come 
here, sir, on the strength o’ that. I go on what young Abel 
Boden has towd me.” 

“Ah, yes; you are friends. He lives with you, I believe?” 

“He does that, sir. An’ I knowed his father afore him. 
We were like a couple o’ brothers, though I was welly owd 
enough to be his father.” 

“ I remember him too, very well. I always thought his go- 
ing was a great mistake. As it is, we know only one side of 
the story. ” 

“And a cluntering tale it be, sir.” 

“You think it goes awkwardly, do you?” 

“ It’s clomb all-fours on to th’ chair o’ truth, an’ there it sits 
to this hour. But I’m a-thinking it’s naught but a westy 
(dizzy) yeaded lie, as’ll come down wi’ a clatter some o’ these 
days. Happen you think, sir, this is wide of our present busi- 
ness. Butitisna. If that day’s work hadna been done twenty 
years agone, I shouldna ha’ been here on this errand now. 
Somehow, Mr. Phythian, I feel I’m doing a very bold thing to 
meddle with aught that concerns yourself, and I’ll besampsous 
(lucky) to escape your displeasure. But it’s on me conscience 
that I mun save th’ lad if I can.” 

This was Nathan’s apology, and Balthasar accepted it, much 
wondering what was to follow. Nathan’s reputation for mind- 
ing his own business, his sturdy independence of character, his 
almost austere self-respect, which was the fit and proper basis 
of his well-known respect for his social betters — this, coupled 


174 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


with his present evident embarrassment, tickled Balthasar’s 
curiosity. Said he: 

“Let me hear what you have to say. I will serve you 
gladly, if I can.” 

At this Nathan drew a long breath, and answered: 

“ Thank you,' sir. To drive a straight furrow, then, I dunna 
want Mr. Phythian to step aside for young Abel Boden, as re- 
gards the miller’s daughter. I’m thinking you’ve on’y naished 
it on his account. But he’s no right to her, and he munna 
have her. That’s th’ kernel o’ th’ thing; and if I’ve offended 
you, I can only say, sir, I didna osse (intend) to.” 

This was slightly dialectical, but Nathan’s sense of insuffi- 
ciency, verging upon desperation, naturally led him to choose 
the line of least resistance in language; moreover, Balthasar 
was a native, and was not to be bogged by dialect. 

“You have not offended me in the least, Nathan, but you 
have very much surprised me. I thought Miss Boden’s rela- 
tions with our picturesque young blacksmith were something of 
a secret. Mr. Kneebone and Violet Chalk excepted, I thought 
I was the only person who knew of them. Has young Boden 
told you exactly how the matter stands in regard to myself?” 

“ I believe he has.” 

“Indeed! My position has been a peculiar one from the 
first, and it seems to be growing more peculiar as time goes on. 
There is Jano, for instance — Jano, you know, is my sister, Miss 
Phythian — she thinks the affair is running beautifully, and is 
very proud of her handiwork. I believe she has already begun 
to overhaul the household linen, against the day when she will 
surrender all the keys of her kingdom, power, and glory to Mrs. 
Balthasar Phythian, nte Boden. Of my many friends, the fools 
write to her inquiring as to the state of my health, and hint at 
a temporary derangement of my mental faculties, at which I am 
amused, and she, being angry, answers a fool according to his 
folly. On the other hand, the knaves write me congratulatory 
letters chock-full of false sentiment and democratic jargon. 
As though a lover — be he Tory or Whig, loon or lord, gentle 
or simple, rich or poor — were not always and everwyhere the 
one pure typical aristocrat the world over! — as though the cant 
about equality were not of necessity mere vulgar brainless in- 
sult, to the man who has discovered in the object of his love 
the Queen of women! The remnant of my friends, being 
neither fools nor knaves, mostly stand off and are silent; a few 
have spoken to me personally, and their words were wise as 
proverbs, and sweet as old songs. These are only lookers-on 
at the play; but here are you fresh from behind the scenes, 


A WITNESS TELLS HIS TALE 


*75 


with the very smell of the green-room upon you. Nathan Wass, 
it is to be hoped that report lies not when it trumpets you as a 
discreet man.” 

“I reckon th’ lad knowed th’ kind o’ man I be, afore he 
ventured his word wi’ me,” said Nathan, straightening his back 
as he spoke. 

“ Does he know you have come to see me ? ” inquired Bal- 
thasar, with a touch of malice. 

Nathan’s wrinkled and weather-beaten face grew suddenly 
red, 

“ No, he doesna; but I sh’ll tell him ’at after. An I’d towd 
him afore, there’d ha’ been a bit of a row, happen.” 

“I’m not sure but what it would be better to say nothing 
about it to him. I do not see that it would do any good, and 
it might do harm; however, that is your own affair — only, 
think it over first. I should like to know why you do not wish 
those two to come together? You have a reason, of course?” 

Nathan had foreseen this very question, and the foresight 
had occasioned him no little disquietude. The true answer 
would, of course, have been the easiest and the best; it was fit 
and proper, covered the whole ground so neatly, and occupied 
his mind so completely, as to leave no standing-room for any 
of the various answers, more or less ingenious and more or less 
fictitious, which he had mentally framed on his way to the 
Chase. But Nathan’s real reason for wishing to keep Abel and 
Ruth apart happened to be one that did not lend itself easily 
to the occasion; it involved certain facts of a nature somewhat 
startling and dangerous. Marbles are one thing, and explosive 
bullets are another. Here he was, however, at last face to face 
with the great question, and his mind was still not made up. 
He looked at Balthasar for some moments in silence. He was 
not framing his answer. He was thinking of nothing but — 
sheep- washing! He saw the washers up to their waists in the 
waters of the Scarthin; the sheep floating on their backs, held 
up by the head; on the high bank, a sheep held by a man stood 
with its fore-feet stiffly planted out, waiting its turn to be 
thrown neck and crop into the dark water below. Those stiffly 
planted feet say plainly : “Jump in? No, sir — not quite. If 
I go, you throw me.” Yet at the signal, see! the sheep at a 
touch takes a leap, and bounds into the water like a stag! At 
the same moment, Nathan took the hint, made up his mind, 
and — jumped. 

“Yes, sir,” he said, speaking with deliberation; “I have a 
fairly good rayson, but it isna one to be bruited idly about. 
If, when you hear it, you count it a thing for the birds to 


176 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


whistle about, let ’em have it to whistle. For mesen, I’ve 
kept it close for twenty year, thinking it too shamefu’ for th’ 
birds o’ th’ air to twitter it. Happen th’ time’s come when 
that which is hid should be brought to light.” He drew close 
to Balthasar, and said almost in a whisper: “My name for 
Miller Boden is — ‘Murderer ’ ! ” 

Balthasar gave a start and drew back, exclaiming: “Good 
heavens, man ! what do you mean ? ” 

“He tried his hand at murdering his brother, Abel; that’s 
what ” 

But Balthasar put up his hands, palms outward, and averted 
his head. “ Nay, nay, ” he cried in horror ; “ stop, man, stop ! I 
won’t hear it. If it is true, you should tell it to a magistrate. 
If it is false, good heavens! you deserve, old as you are, to 
be whipped at the cart-tail, from end to end of the parish.” 

For some moments the old man made no reply, only he drew 
himself up to his full height, and looked at Balthasar with a 
calm, proud look on his wrinkled face. Presently he sighed 
deeply, and then, while a contemptuous smile showed itself 
about his mouth, he said: 

“An Nathan Wass speaks fawse (false), a whippin’ at th’ 
cart-tail is naught. I’d say, put irons on his shackles (wrists), 
a omber (horse-collar) o’ hemp around his neck, sit him on a 
dung-cart, and drive him aneath th’ tawest whoke-tree (oak- 
tree) in the parish, throw th’ t’other end of th’ hemp o’er a 
good stout limb, and let every honest man in Voe lend a hand 
to heft th’ rogue into th’ air.” 

“You mean to say solemnly the man’s a murderer?” 

“ I do. In thought and belief he’s a murderer.” 

“ But not in deed, do you mean ? ” 

“ I grant he didna finish his deed — so far he is no murderer. 
But he began it, and he meant to finish it, and what’s more, he 
believes to this hour that he did finish it. And I say the dif- 
ference atwixt him and a real murderer is thin as air.” 

“Will you tell me how you happen to know all this?” 

“ I saw it all wi’ me own eyes. I was agate o’ goin’ to Yew- 
dle Brig, on’y I bethought me of some broom o’er at Potter’s 
Carr, and started to go there. As you know, it isna more na 
five minutes’ walk from the cottage to the foot o’ th’ quarry, 
an’ when I got there I made for the moor above, by going 
through the plantation this side th’ quarry. Th’ day was 
very hot, and the side o’ th’ hill pretty steep, and . when I 
was about half-way up I sat down agen a stone, just inside the 
plantation and o’erlooking the quarry. In a little or no time 
I heard voices, and looking up to the quarry-brow, I saw the 


A WITNESS TELLS HIS TALE 


177 


two Boden lads; they seemed to be having some hot words or 
other. Soon Luke made a spring at his brother, and there they 
was clutchin’ an’ fightin’ like mad dogs, not a dozen feet from 
th’ edge o’ th’ quarry. Lord! I felt sure they’d both be o’er, 
and sure enough one of ’em went over like a ball. You see, I 
gather it grew into a fight for life, and Abel won: he threw 
Luke, who rolled right over; but he wasna hurt, not to speak 
on. I saw him wi’ me own eyes. In five feet he touched the 
loose shingle, rolled over, and dropped into a young ash-tree; 
he went clean through it, and went down a dozen feet right on 
to the owd yew-tree; then he struck some bushes, rolled a bit 
at after, and drew up agen a green stone.” 

“ Why, I wonder he wasn’t killed twice over ! ” exclaimed Bal- 
thasar. 

“ What was there to kill him ? He fell from tree to tree, an’ 
was let down at last gently as a new-born babe. An’ he had 
travelled any other road, there wouldna ha’ been much life 
left in him at th’ end, happen. By-and-by comes Abel like a 
wild man to the edge, and cries: ‘Luke, Luke, where art th’ ? ’ 
Luke, sitting on his haunches by th’ green stone, looks up, and 
crouches down, and harkens out, but mak’s no word of answer. 
He was on th’ narrow shelf o’ rock that crosses the face o’ th’ 
quarry; up above it, there’s a big table o’ rock jutting out, on 
to which I saw him crawl and lie down under some bushes: we 
was on a line wi’ one another then. I wondered what his game 
was, when all of a sudden like there was Abel coming along 
the shelf o’ rock in search of his brother. For a while I forgot 
to look at Luke, until Abel was right under him, then — ah, 
God! I couldna move nor cry; I was dumb and helpless with 
sheer horror. There on that table rock was that devil of a 
miller ho’ding a stone that looked as big as a grindstone, in 
both hands, right o’er Abel’s head. One — two — three — down 
it went with a thud. I heard th’ poor lad groan; I saw him 
go down. Not a damned tree or bush or shrub was there to 
break his fa’ ! ” 

And the old man paused, and took out his handkerchief, and 
used it vigorously. Balthasar waited until Nathan had over- 
come his emotion, then he inquired: 

“Did the miller leave him there?” 

“ Oh, no, sir; he had to cover up his work. He went down 
to the bottom of the quarry, and picking up the body of his 
brother, carried it to an owd lead-mine, and pitched it down 
the shaft. Then he covered up the shaft agen, wi’ boards and 
stones, and limped back wum, an’ towd his lying tale, which 
holds its ground to this hour.” 

12 


i 7 8 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“Oh, it’s horrible, horrible!” exclaimed Balthasar, begin- 
ning to promenade the conservatory in an excited manner. 
Presently he halted in front of Nathan, and said: 

“ I cannot let this thing rest here. The man’s a murderer, 
and should be brought to justice. Are you prepared to tell on 
oath to judge and jury what you have told me?” 

“ I be that, sir.” 

“You know where he hid the body?” 

“It isna quarter of a mile from the cottage.” 

“You think we can find the body, then?” Nathan shook his 
head. 

“Why not? Surely he has not taken it away?” 

“Not he, sir. I’d wager aw I’m worth, you couldna bribe 
him for love or money to go nigh th’ spot. It’s like this, sir 
• — I hanna towd you the end o’ th’ story yet. Happen you re- 
member of me saying he began his work and thought he’d fin- 
ished it, but he hadna?” 

“For goodness’ sake, Nathan, out with it, and have done! I 
never saw such a slow fellow in my life,” said Balthasar im- 
patiently. 

“Happen I’m slow acos it’s an owd, owd tale wi’ me, and 
you’re o’er quick acos it’s a new story to you. The body isna 
there — acos I took it away. It was like this: I followed Luke, 
keeping in the background. And when he’d gone, I fell to 
work and opened up the shaft. It was a deep un, I well 
knowed, an’ full o’ water wi’in three foot o’ th’ top. The 
miller didna know, but I knowed, that when they covered o’er 
th’ shaft thirty year afore that time, they laid some boards 
across it, eight or ten foot from th’ top. An they were still 
there and strong enow, there was a chance o’ my getting him 
up. Well, I lay down and looked o’er, and there doubled up 
in a heap was poor Abel. His head lay on one side, resting 
agen th’ slimy side o’ th’ shaft; but, thank God, it war out o’ 
th’ water! The Lord knows how I did it, I dunna. But I got 
him out, and carried him to the cottage, and— and, he wasna 
dead , , sir. Lord! I alleys cry when I think o’ it, and I cried 
then for joy. Well, sir, I brought him to; and when they was 
out after him wi’ a warrant, I hid him close, and nursed him 
many a week, and set him up a well man agen; on’y battered, 
sir, battered and marred, and sorely shaken, poor lad.” 

“And what became of him?” 

Here Nathan growled and shook his head, and showed un- 
mistakable signs of disgust. 

“Don’t you know?” persisted Balthasar. 

No, no. He disappointed me sorely, I dunna know an 


A WITNESS TELLS HIS TALE 


179 

you recollect, sir, that I came forrard at the time and kind of 
supported the miller’s tale?” 

“Yes, I remember it perfectly. You said you had seen Luke 
thrown over the cliff by Abel. People said hard things about 
you at the time, I remember. They thought, as you were 
Abel’s friend, you might have kept a still tongue,” answered 
Balthasar. 

“ I was a foo’, a soft-headed foo’, and so I’ve towd mesen 
times and times agen. It was aw his doings, you may be sure. 
When he come to, I wanted to send for a justice o’ th’ peace 
to tak’ down his words, for I didna think he would live. Said 
he, ‘Wass, an you do, I’ll curse you wi’ me dying breath. He’s 
my brother, man. ’ I towd him at after o’ th’ tale Luke had 
set agoin’. He wanted to know whether the folk believed it 
or not. I said, No, they wanna such dolts. He said no word 
for a time, then he whispered — he couldnatalk above a whisper 
— ‘Wass, thou art known as a man who speaks little, and that 
little true. You saw me pitch Luke o’er. Say as much, and 
folk will believe Luke’s story. If they don’t believe him, it 
will go hard with him. You’ve saved my life. Won’t you 
save his name — for my sake ? ’ I stood out, but the poor lad 
seemed sore distressed at the thought that his brother might 
get into trouble an we didna back him up. The upshot was, I 
went out an’ backed up Luke’s lie. I towd naught but the 
truth; but being a fragment on’y o’ th’ truth, it was as good as 
a thundering lie, and aw to save th’ credit o’ that villain.” 

“ And what became of him at last ? ” 

“ He went to New Zealand. On and off I heard from him 
for four or five years. He seemed to be troubling about his 
lad; so I sent him word I would keep an eye on the lad, and 
see he was looked after. Two years later he sent me three 
hundred pounds to take care on for the lad, and pay his board 
and schooling wi’. I wrote and towd him I was no pauper, 
and the lad lacked naught; but I would guard the money till 
the lad was setting up housekeeping. And it’s in the bank to 
this day. As for owd Abel, I’ve heard no more of him sen. 
But I dunna think he’s dead. He’ll turn up one o’ these days, 
and please God I’d like to live to look once agen into his kind 
owd eyes.” 

“ Perhaps you will, Nathan. There’s no knowing. I am 
profoundly glad we haven’t got to denounce the miller. What 
a sensation it would have made! I really thought I was in for 
it at last. It is a strange tale you have told me, Nathan — a 
strange, sad tale. I shouldn’t have thought the miller would 
have done a thing like that. And he actually thinks he is a 


l8o THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 

murderer! I shall take more interest in him than ever. As 
for the two young ones, I suppose your feeling is that Abel 
would object if he knew?” 

“I’m o’ that opinion strong. You see, sir, it isna as though 
the miller was sorry for what he thinks he did that day.” 

“That is saying a great deal, is it not? For all you know, 
he is more sorry than we could very well imagine.” 

“ Nay, he’s none sorry. And the proof o’ it is the way he’s 
alleys treated young Abel. He’d ruin the lad an he could. 
Nay, nay; had he stood by owd Abel’s child, instead o’ doin’ 
aw he could agen him, I should ha’ judged he was sorry. And 
happen I should ha’ eased his mind afore to-day, by letting 
him know his brother wasna dead. He’s none sorry, and by 
the same token, I say there’s blood atwixt th’ young uns, and 
they munna wed. I’m thinking, Abel, the father, would say 
the same.” 

“ Perhaps you are right, but I must think it over. My fu- 
ture relations with MissBoden will necessarily depend on what 
conclusion I arrive at. My opinion of her remains unaltered : I 
think the man who marries her, be he Abel Boden or Bal- 
thasar Phythian, will get a prize in the line of womanhood.” 

“I’m willing to believe, sir, she’s a good girl enow. All I 
have agen her is she’s Luke Boden’s girl, and by the same 
token not the lass for young Abel. There, sir, didna I tell you 
there was more rain to come?” said Nathan, as the rain began 
to drive heavily against the glass. 

Balthasar thought it would soon be over, and urged the old 
man to wait until it cleared a bit; but Nathan prophesied what 
he styled “a mighty lomb,” and presently set out on his home- 
ward journey. Soon Janoca came into the conservatory and 
spent some time chatting with her brother and encouraging her 
much loved plants to do their best, by gentle touches, and sweet 
looks, and soft words of admiration and affection. Meanwhile 
Balthasar looked on, with a wild and awful desire “ to own 
up, ’’and take his sister into his confidence, and gain the price- 
less boon of her advice and counsel. By-and-by she left him 
and went into the house; then he gave a great sigh of relief, 
like one delivered from danger, and said half audibly, “Thank 
Jupiter, I didn’t take the plunge! ” Yet the more he thought 
about his situation in regard of Ruth, the less he liked it, and 
the more he wondered that he had ever brought it about. The 
idea struck him that he would like to have a talk with Knee- 
bone, of whom he had heard much from Ruth. So toward 
evening, although it was still pelting with rain, he started for 
Voe. From a terrace of the overhanging hill above the vil- 


A WITNESS TELLS HIS TALE 


181 

lage, he could see the Scarthin below. “ Ha ! the flood is out, 
then, and — yes, by Jove, there’s something up!” he cried, as 
his glance rested on the bridge, where in the gloom of the val- 
ley he saw a small crowd of dark figures moving about in an 
excited manner. 


CHAPTER XXI 


A GUST OF THE SOUL AND 

On the morning of the same day that Nathan Wass paid his 
visit to Gentleman Phythian, Miller Boden, encased in a great 
thick waterproof coat, left home very early in his hooded Tim- 
whisky, of respectable if old-fashioned appearance. He had a 
long, dreary drive before him of over twenty miles, mostly 
across wild moorland, with only here and there a stray road- 
side inn where he could find accommodation, good or other- 
wise, for himself and his beast. It was a sad day for a jaunt 
over the black and desolate moors, whose aspect is never of the 
kindest, and is apt to show grim under cloud and storm. It 
was certain to be bad under foot, but the miller had good 
horse-flesh, and his business was urgent, and, as he justly ob- 
served, he was a lump neither of sugar nor salt that he should 
fear a sprinkling or a spate of water. He shouted to Ruth, 
who stood at the door, as he drove out of the courtyard into 
the lane: “ Have a good fire and a dish o’ tea for me, Ruthie. 
I shall be back ere nightfall.” 

It was a limp, dripping, colorless day for Ruth; she was 
tired of being in the house day after day, and of listening to 
the ceaseless patter of the rain. Then it was enough to try the 
sweetest temper in the world, to think what a grand opportu- 
nity was being lost to the two lovers. If only Abel had known 
— but there, he did not know, and the dull, leaden hours were 
slipping away, and soon there would be nothing left but the 
bitter memory of a golden opportunity utterly wasted. In the 
afternoon, as we know, there was a spell of two or three hours 
when, in answer to Nathan’s righteous growl, the windows of 
heaven were three parts shut. Ruth went out into the back- 
garden, and stood in the entrance to the ivy-covered bower, 
and found a great joy in breathing God’s glorious oxygen, in 
listening to the humming of the bees, and in smelling the wet 
buds. But it was over all too soon. The clouds closed up, 
doubled themselves together, rolled on the top of each other, 
grew black in the face with fierce determination, and recom- 
menced their kindly little game of washing the valley folk of 


A GUST OF THE SOUL AND- 


183 

Peakshire into the sea. Ruth sat upstairs in her chamber sew- 
ing, and dreaming young love’s dream, ever sweet and musical 
and of immortal hopefulness, albeit there was a dark-colored 
strain of sadness in the dream; as in the mellow murmur of the 
Scarthin, which was distinctly audible through her partly 
opened casement, there seemed to intrude at intervals a deep 
roar that was tuned only to the tragic music of sorrow and 
anguish. 

“ I never heard 

Of any true affection, but ’twas nipt 

With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 

The leaves of the spring’s sweetest book, the rose.” 

After some time the changed voice of the river caught her 
attention, and she put down her work and stood at the window 
listening. It was not at all like the familiar and greatly loved 
voice of the Scarthin, strong yet soft and rich and joyous, she 
thought. It sounded more like the angry growl of a savage 
beast, sullen and fierce. The sound haunted her. I suppose 
there is a chord of superstition in every one of us. It may be 
more or less difficult to strike it, but once struck, we revert in 
an instant to the attitude of primitive mankind, and shiver and 
burn with fearful and uncontrollable awe. 

Nothing she knew of in Nature awoke in Ruth such a terri- 
ble sense of personal impotence, face to face with supernatural * 
malignity, as the sight of the Scarthin in a flood. Twice only, 
when she was a child, she had seen it filled to the top of its 
deep and beautiful banks, and she had cowered back and hid- 
den her face in her hands, trembling in speechless and incom- 
prehensible terror. And now, as its sullen roar came up from 
the valley, something of her childish terror stole over her. 
She withdrew from the window, and went into another part of 
the house, the farthest removed from the sound; but the dull 
roar followed her. It was not so much in her ears as in her 
soul. After tea, she put on a mackintosh with a hood, which 
she pulled over her head, and ran down the courtway into the 
lane. Here she mounted the bank, and went to the edge of a 
belt of larches, where she stood and surveyed the scene below 
her. “ Ah, the flood ! ” she gasped, her hands to her breast, 
while her eyes opened wide with the nameless terror. Yes, the 
flood was out, and no wonder. Draining the hills and the high 
uplands of Peakshire, whence it issued at race-horse speed, tum- 
bling over rocks big and little in a perpetual white foam, the 
Scarthin had brought a flood on its back more than once into 
the valley, without any warning and without a drop of rain 
having fallen at Voe. But it had been raining now, high and 


184 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


low, for /lays together: but for the preceding dry weather, in 
which the land became exceeding thirsty, the springs feeble, 
and the subterranean reservoirs pretty empty, the Scarthin 
would have lifted its back two days ago. Now, however, the 
soil on the uplands was saturated, the underground cisterns 
were overflowing, the tributaries had waxed big, and every rill, 
ditch, and carrier was pouring its own little torrent into the 
swollen Scarthin. 

The dark spirit of the flood seized the river, and it began to 
rise with great rapidity. At mid-day the water under Voe 
bridge was thirty-five feet from the top of the middle arch — 
there were nine arches in all; three spanning the river, with 
great circular buttresses to break the force of the water, and 
three on each side spanning the meadow-lands — but at half- 
past five of the clock, when Ruth first saw the flood, the river 
was within twenty feet of the keystone of the middle arch, and 
was still rising at the rate of sixteen inches an hour. 

Luckily for Voe, it was perched too high for the water-demon 
to devour it; but both above and below Voe there were hamlets 
and villages and even towns that were built on a level with its 
banks, as sublimely superior to any vulgar regard for safety as 
any village on the slope of a volcano. In these places people 
were already receiving, with wry faces, prizes for proficiency 
in folly; in their upper rooms, whither they had fled for safety, 
they could hear the splashing of water, and the odd noise of 
tables and chairs and pianos as they bumped against each other 
floating about. One man there was lying flat on a large oak 
table, to escape knocking his head against the open beams of 
the ceiling — and the water was still rising! Ruth might have 
been a statue, so motionless was she for a long while. Sud- 
denly, however, she started, and apparently shuddered as she 
murmured: “ I must save her, or she will be drowned.” There- 
upon she hied back to the house, and said to Jane: “ I am go- 
ing to see after Dame Betty Iperson. I shall try and get back 
before father gets home. Keep a good fire, and have every- 
thing ready for his tea.” Then she went forth. Half-way 
down the lane whom should she meet but Mistress Violet Chalk, 
who exclaimed: 

“ Making so bold, and where may you be off to, Miss Ruth ? 
I was just coming up to see how you were all getting on.” 

“O Violet, I am so glad to see you! I want you to ask 
Abel to come and meet me coming home. I am going to see 
how Dame Betty is,” said Ruth, in a tone almost of defiance. 

“ Nay, you’re surely not ! Do you know the river’s flooded ? ” 

“What of that? I am no child, Violet.” 


A GUST OF THE SOUL AND 


185 


“Since when have you lost your fear of the flood?” 

“ Don’t be ridiculous, please. If there’s any danger, I can 
come back and get help. I must see after the old woman. If 
anything happened to her I should never forgive myself.” 

“You will come back through the wood?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ If you’ve set your mind on going, it isn’t Violet Chalk that 
can stop you, Miss Ruth; that I know very well. However, 
I’ll set somebody after you that can manage you well enough, 
I’ve no doubt. And to think you are actually going past the 
old oak again, all alone!” 

Not till this moment had Ruth thought one whit of the tree 
wherein she had seen the face of the satyr. The spiritual ter- 
ror of the flooded river razed from her memory all smaller fears. 
But now as she thought of that horrible vision of the tree she 
— trembled? No. A quick pain shot through her, cold as a 
spear of ice, but her head went up proudly, and her foot came 
down bravely, and into her sweet mouth there came a firmness 
that betokened a courage true as steel. Nevertheless, as her 
glance rested on the rushing waters, her eyes were wide open 
like those of a child affrighted. There was nothing to be seen 
now of the footpath along the river-side, through the meadows; 
so Ruth followed the Yewdle Brig road until she came to the 
wood, which she entered through a narrow opening in the stone 
wall, and following a little-used trail that ran down the steep 
hillside, she struck at bottom into the regular track near the 
boundary-wall. Where the land dipped, she could hear the 
water lapping the wall; once or twice the path itself had been 
turned into a standing pool, and the girl had to climb the hill 
in order to get round it. 

On a rising ground Ruth plucked up courage and made her 
way through the thick bushes to the wall, to see how things 
looked. Before her lay a vast expanse of water, broken all 
over with the pouring rain: the toothsome grassland between 
the wood and the river, wherein she had watched the sober- 
minded lambs of the nineteenth century, had become the bed 
of a rushing torrent; whether the sheep had been washed away 
she knew not. Across the river, on grassy knolls and high 
patches of meadow-land, were grouped cattle in twos and 
threes; there were milch-cows among them, and these at short 
intervals lowed as if in pain with their full udders. As for the 
Scarthin, its high terraced banks, dotted with low bushes and 
honeycombed with miniature caves dry and sandy, were entirely 
submerged, and nothing remained to indicate the ordinary out- 
line and course of the river save a double row of trees, which 


i86 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


looked like large bushes floating on the top of the water. What 
with the gray, sad clouds in the sky, and the pelting rain, and 
the cruel waste of water before her eyes, it was little wonder 
that Ruth turned sick at heart, and her spiritual terror smote 
her courage that it reeled again. She turned away, with her 
face set homeward. She went perhaps a dozen yards, and then 
she suddenly stopped, and stamping her right foot, exclaimed: 
“ O you wretched coward ! And perhaps the water is about 
her this very moment, and she cannot get upstairs for rheu- 
matism, and she will drown, and all because I^-I haven’t got 
the heart of a hen, in sight of the flood. O Abel, my love, 
send me a gust of thy brave soul! So — so — so — it has come! 
I drink it in ! I am Abel’s girl now ! ” She drew in her breath 
deeply again and again, as if in very truth she felt the fearless 
spirit of her lover were in the air; then she faced round and 
went forward toward her duty and — the old oak-tree. The 
path now ran along pretty high ground and was dry, bu<t the 
water was within a few feet of it. The boundary-wall had 
given place to a thick hedge, planted on a bank with a deep 
slope toward the river. 

As she sped along, Ruth was struck with the effect of the 
flood upon birds and animals. On the top of tall, outstanding 
trees were gathered rooks with outstretched necks and ruffled 
plumes, cawing dismally; partridges huddled together in cov- 
eys, terror-stricken; the waters plashed them, but they only 
huddled the closer against the bank-side or the tree-bottom, 
until they were submerged and drowned. The timid rabbit 
and fearful hare forgot their instinct for hiding, and leaving 
their holes and hedge-bottoms, climbed high up into the 
branches overhead, and would allow themselves to be taken 
with the hand. They acted most irrationally, reflected the girl ; 
but she understood their terror, and gave them her pitiful sym- 
pathy. She felt that she stood very close to them in this hour 
of Nature’s wild mastery. If she had reason to support her, 
they had cunning instinct and strong wings and swift feet; but 
the terror of the Spate was supreme. And yet it was not so 
after all, for had she not within her a gust of Abel’s soul? 
And when knew Abel’s soul any fear of Nature? She came 
within sight of the satyr’s tree, and lo! she shivered not, 
neither did she tingle, nor yet did her heart so much as quicken 
its beat. She looked at it, already wrapped in gloom, and 
smiled, thinking within herself: “The foolish old monster! 
Doesn’t it know that the spirit of Abel is upon me! ” 

Then she hurried on, and soon came to a stile that gave 
egress from the wood. In front of her was a small bay of grass- 


A GUST Of THE SOUL AND- 


l8 7 


covered land, about an acre and a half in extent, with a gen- 
tle slope to the river; the wooded hill ran all round it, except 
on its river side. In the centre, on a natural mound, was a 
small stone cottage imbedded in ivy, with the tiniest of flower- 
gardens in front. Ordinarily it made a pretty picture enough, 
especially when the sun was on the trees and the water; but 
when the sky was clouded, and the light had left the ground, 
and only lingered in broken gleams on the murmuring river, 
and the steep, hanging wood cast its black shadow all over the 
grassy cove, the feeble glimmer of the candle through the un- 
curtained window of the cottage, visible from the highway on 
the other side of the Scarthin, induced an uncomfortable sense 
of eeriness in most belated travellers. The candle glimmered 
at all hours of the night, but the lonely little cot was free from 
all intruders, partly on account of its out-of-the-way situation 
as regarded strangers, tramps, and vagabonds, and partly on 
account of its inhabitant as regarded the natives; for here lived 
in dreary loneliness the White Witch of Voe, Dame Betty Iper- 
son. Poachers and gamekeepers often saw the “Witch’s Eye,” 
as they called the candlelight, but they gave it a wide berth, 
and they would have crossed themselves had they been good 
Catholics instead of honest Protestants. Of all nocturnal wan- 
derers, Abel Boden alone ever ventured to knock at the door 
of Betty’s cottage. . 

Ruth stood on the edge of the wood, and her heart began to 
palpitate furiously; the semicircular plot of fertile meadow- 
land was transformed into a restless, foam-flecked lake. Nearly 
opposite to the cottage the Scarthin made a pretty sharp bend; 
but the Scarthin was no longer in existence, and in its place 
was a devouring ravine that knew no bounds like unto those of 
the Scarthin, and it came on strong as a tide, swift as a race- 
horse, and with the voice of muffled thunder. At a distance it 
seemed to be heading straight for Dame Betty’s cottage, but 
luckily the torrent struck about two hundred yards higher up: 
the land between the river and the wood was high and rocky 
about there, and effectually barred all farther progress of the 
torrent in that direction. The waters raged and roared, but 
all in vain; they had to accommodate themselves to circum- 
stances, which they did by rushing back at an acute angle, and 
then sweeping with a hissing sound right across the front of the 
little grass-covered bay. 

There was no light in the cottage, and no smoke issued from 
its solitary chimney, and already the water was several feet 
above the doorstep. The only sign of life within was the dis- 
mal howling of a dog at short intervals, which the girl con- 


i88 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


eluded came from Gypsy, Dame Betty’s ancient and ugly Skye 
terrier, whom the natives called the “ Witch’s familiar.” Ruth 
called at the top of her voice a number of times, but no one 
answered save the dog, who gave a series of short barks, and 
then fell to whining and howling dolefully. “If I am not al- 
ready too late, I soon shall be, ’’murmured Ruth, looking round 
despairingly. How to get to the cottage she did not know, 
but somehow or other it had to be done; she had not undergone 
the terrible strain of the last hour merely to turn aside at the 
point of danger. She felt sure that Abel would soon come to 
her, but in the mean time the minutes were too precious to be 
lost. The waters were still rising quickly, and from the way 
in which she could see them washing against the cottage, it 
seemed as if the walls must soon collapse and the whole place 
be swept away. 

As the crow flies, Ruth was not more than half a mile from 
Carbel Chase, whence a footpath ran straight through the wood 
and down to the river-side. The path left the wood on the op- 
posite side of the grassy cove to where Ruth stood. Janoca 
Phythian was fond of the water, and liked to boat on the Scar- 
thin on summer evenings; the Phythians’ was the only boat 
kept on the river for some miles. There were two boat-houses 
— one beside the river, where the boat was kept in summer, 
and another just within the wood, where the boat was stored in 
winter. The river-side house was probably long since washed 
away, and if not it was buried twelve feet in water. But there 
was every chance that the boat was still in its winter quarters. 
This thought it was which started Ruth running through the 
wood to get to the other side of what was now an actual watery 
bay. 

When she got to the boat-house, she was not farther than a 
hundred yards from the rocky point against which the torrent 
rushed only to recoil with a roar and a hiss. The sight and 
sound of the tumbling, foaming waters were sickening to Ruth, 
and for some moments she stood irresolute. Presently she 
stooped and picked up a heavy stone, and struck deftly the 
padlock that secured the door of the boat-house. A few strokes 
were sufficient to break the lock, and then she opened the door 
and went in. She had found her courage. To her joy there 
was the boat sitting on its stays, and a dozen oars were resting 
in their rack. Ruth released with some difficulty the boat from 
the tarpaulin that enwrapped it, chose a pair of the lightest 
oars she could find, and then for the first time asked herself how 
she was going to get the boat out of the house, and over the 
wall that bounded the wood, and so into the bay. At the far 


A GUST OF THE SOUL AND- 


189 


end of the house were two wide doors fronting the river, and 
from the doors to the grass-land below was a wooden incline, 
grooved and furnished with rollers; a small windlass pulled 
the boat from the stays along rollers to the doors, and then 
passed it down the incline, and drew it through the grass to 
the water’s-edge. It was Janoca’s plan of launching her own 
boat by herself. Ruth, however, was unable to utilize this 
mechanical arrangement, because three feet below the doors 
the torrent, just recovered from its recoil, went rushing along 
with big waves upon its back — waves which at intervals dashed 
themselves against the doors, and made the boat-house shake 
again. 

It took an immense amount of tugging and lifting, but at 
length the girl got the boat out into the wood, and reared it 
against the wall, through which the water was now pouring 
into the wood. It was a tremendous heft to raise the boat on 
to the wall and push it over, but somehow she managed it; on 
the other side, the boat had only about a foot to fall ere it 
rested on the water, that was now at least eight feet deep at 
this the mouth of the bay. Across the wall, Ruth held with 
one hand the boat, which floated beautifully, she thought, while 
with the other hand she lifted in the oars and fitted them into 
the rowlocks; then she mounted the wall, stepped into the 
boat, seated herself quickly, seized the oars and — heigho! 
before she could wet her oars the little skiff was half across 
the bay, and was headed across the river. She seemed to be 
going like an express train; but oddly enough, the boat did 
not cleave the water, but was swept along, motionless. The 
truth broke upon her with the sensation of a glare of lightning 
in her eyes — she was at the mercy of the flood! 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE CONSEQUENCES 

She seized the oars, and put all the strength, of despair into 
her stroke, but without avail ; as well might one attempt to stop 
an express train by pushing with all his might against the cush- 
ioned seat. The boat was borne swiftly along right into the 
river, which was the fierce heart of the torrent. The girl’s 
glance went out over the wild waste of water, and the nearest 
green strips of land seemed a long way off — too far for her feet 
ever more to tread them. The dull gray light of day had given 
place to the duller and grayer light of evening; it was still 
pouring with rain, and black-faced storm-clouds were moving 
solemnly over the tops of the hills. A woeful dreary world it 
looked; a sad and melancholy night for the soul to start out all 
alone on its long, mysterious journey. And what a trist fate, 
ellinge, sombre, and pitiful, to go down into the flood, while 
yet one was young and full of health and hope, and be picked 
out a dripping, cold corpse! It went through her brain like 
fire, and she clasped her hands, and closed her eyes, and lifted 
her pale face heavenward, and moaned in utter despair. 

“You were a fool for troubling yourself at all about the 
White Witch. You haven’t saved her life, and you have lost 
your own. And jolly well right it serves you.” 

Some one in the boat, behind her, spoke these words dis- 
tinctly. Ruth heard every syllable, and gave a great start, 
and turned round on her seat, and gazed about her in a curious 
fashion: no one was in the boat — visibly — but herself. Oddly 
enough, the voice was that of Am Ende, though there is reason 
to believe that the real speaker was Momieur le Diable. Ruth 
began to tremble; and no wonder! To the ear, she spake not 
a word; but a swift and strong controversy was going on within 
her. And to the listening spirit, invisible but eager and 
alert, the poor child rushing to her death made answer, stum- 
bling and pathetic, but brave and honorable and a glory to her 
young womanhood. “ Yes, I was foolish to try to do it alone, but 
nobody else thought of her . I tried to do what I felt I ought to, 
and God and — Abel won't blame me, and won't forget me 


THE CONSEQUENCES 


191 

Monsieur has fallen low, very low, if all that is writ of him 
be true, but there is still something of the gentleman left in 
him. And when he got his answer, he went like the wind, and 
left poor Ruth to meet her doom. The boat was being carried 
along so swiftly and quietly that Ruth did not realize her in- 
stant danger, and thought only of Voe bridge; it was there, al- 
most in sight of the mill and the smithery, that she looked to 
meet her death. The arches at Voe were wide, and there was 
just a chance that the boat would clear them; but even then, 
two miles lower down there was an iron bridge across the river 
at the rapids, supported by nine iron pillars, that stood in 
threes diagonally across the Scarthin. No human power could 
steer the boat safely through that network of iron columns. 

It was better a thousand times, she thought, to fall against 
the gray and green stonework at Voe, and die at home, as it 
were, than to be carried away and done to death under that 
grim and strange-looking structure, that did not seem to belong 
naturally to that part of the country, and of which she had 
never heard man, woman, or child say a kind or affectionate 
or proud word. Many such words she had heard of her own 
village bridge; she loved it with a quite distinct and peculiar 
affection ; and even now, when she expected in a few minutes 
that the old bridge would smash her boat and cast her helpless 
into the jaws of death, she invested it with a sentiment of pity 
and sympathy. 

She looked round and saw she was already within half a mile 
of the bridge, and the flood was hurrying her on, as it swept 
along with a dull internal roar, but with scarcely a ripple on 
its dark face now, broad, deep, cruel, and irresistible. The 
girl bent her head, covered her face with her hands, and sat 
waiting for the end. She thought of nothing. Images innu- 
merable chased each other across her brain, but they formed no 
part of her life; they composed themselves into no real con- 
sciousness. Her true and real life seemed to be withdrawn 
from the outer world and centred in one acute point, that 
seemed to be removed leagues and leagues away from the flood 
and the boat, even from her sensitive hands and face. She 
might have been already dead; and her fluttering soul, already 
lost in light, might have been watching from afar, with curious 
interest, the fate of its recent fleshly temple, still to mortal 
seeming the habitation of a human spirit. 

Suddenly there was a great shout, and looking up, Ruth saw 
a man on horseback on the highway. He jumped the hedge 
and came down the meadow to the brink of the flood ; he sat 
in his saddle gesticulating wildly. Ruth could hear him shout- 


192 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


in g to her, but the roar of the water drowned his words. She 
spread out her hands, and told him her helplessness and despair 
in the primitive and universal dialect of gesture, which none 
but professional actors misrepresent, and none but natural 
idiots can misunderstand. 

The brave fellow actually tried to force his horse into the 
flood; but that sagacious animal rose to the occasion, and sup- 
plied common-sense for himself and his rider, and absolutely 
refused to commit suicide. Then the man turned away, and 
putting spurs to his horse, rode at full gallop toward Voe. 
Ruth watched him making with headlong speed for the village 
by a much nearer way than the course of the river, and she 
wondered if the unknown horseman was the last person she 
would see on earth. That he would be able to reach Voe in 
time for them to do anything to save her would be utterly im- 
possible. Perhaps she would see a few eager faces on the 
bridge; perhaps she would hear — a willow catkin brushed her 
face — a host of slender boughs bent as she rushed through them 
• — bump went the boat full tilt against a submerged branch of 
a large white willow, and over the side of the boat shot Ruth! 
The boat, bottom upward, went rushing along, while Ruth 
clung desperately to the slender and swaying, but happily 
tough, branches of the willow. 

Now, for the first time, did she know the fury and strength 
and pressure of the flood. It pulled her out straight, so that 
she lay on the water at full length, while her muscles stretched 
as if she had been on the rack. In a few minutes she was in 
fearful agony. She endeavored to bend her arms and draw her- 
self nearer to the branches, but the weight and force of the 
water kept her rigid. The willows bent to a strange angle, 
but they were full of fibre and they held. Also her muscles 
held. But she was in torture; and what was the use of hold- 
ing on? Death itself began to show as a sweet ease, a deli- 
cious cessation of agony. 

She half relaxed her hold with one hand, and in another 
twenty seconds would have been past saving, when she heard a 
sound that killed for one instant all sense of pain, and sent life 
surging through her frame like a strong current of electricity. It 
was the cry of an owl, weird and melancholy and far-sdunding 
— true to the life, save that the last notes were tied together in 
a way that no bird ever joined them. It was Abels cry , and it 
came out of the wood, almost opposite to where Ruth was. 
She gathered all her strength, and sent out an answering cry 
that woke the echoes. 

Abel striding quickly along, full of anxiety for Ruth, heard 


THE CONSEQUENCES 


193 


it, and stood like a setter. It was Ruth’s cry, he was certain; 
but it sounded like a death-cry of pain. And where on earth 
did it come from? It seemed quite near; indeed it might 
have issued from the very body of the flood. He gave another 
call, and listened. There was no answer. Again he sent his 
owl-notes wailing through the air. Yes, his quick ears caught 
a feeble “ Ho-o-o-o ! ” followed by “ Abel ! Abel ! ” 

‘‘ My God! she’s in the flood,” he gasped. 

Heedless of the encroaching water, Abel sprang forward, and 
mounting the wall, swept with his keen glance the darkening 
surface of the flood below. No ordinary vision would have 
been able to recognize the outline of Ruth’s form in that long, 
black shadow, stretching out from the willow-tree almost in 
front of him. But Abel’s vision was extraordinary, and he 
knew in a flash it was Ruth. He did not know whether she 
would hear him, but he sent out his cry again, and then mak- 
ing a trumpet with his hands, he shouted: “Hold tight! I’m 
coming, love!” 

Down from the wall he came, and tore along the path for 
some few hundred yards; it was no use entering the water 
where he had stood; no mortal man could cleave a straight line 
across the flood. Off went coat and waistcoat, and trousers 
and shirt, while his boot-laces — they were called patent por- 
poise-laces by the manufacturer, and warranted not to break — • 
snapped like cotton threads. He stood erect on the wall for a 
few seconds, clad only in his stockings and close-fitting woollen 
underwear, and measured the distance between him and his 
love. 

“Thank God, she is on this side the river! And if I don’t 
save her I’ll die trying to.” He made a leap, and went like a 
dart into ten feet of water on the edge of the flood. 

Abel could swim like a fish — and a fine sight better. A man 
that knows his business can beat the best fish in the water at 
swimming. But the flood — ah me! such of the fishes as had 
not got snugly housed in their crystal homes, and were once 
caught in the mighty current, these gave it up at once as a bad 
job, and met their fate with what of dignity a drowned fish 
could display. No fish, only a man and he a brave lover, dare 
take to the flood and hope to live. 

Luckily for Abel, he had not to pit himself against the cen- 
tral current in the body of the Scarthin. The willow to which 
Ruth clung was on the edge of the river, and at ordinary times 
there was a bank of dry sand below where she now lay floating 
on the top of a torrent twenty feet in depth. Abel fought his 
way until he was in a line with Ruth, then he gave himself to 
13 


194 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


the flood, and in ten seconds he was right among the branches 
of the tree. He seized a stout branch that hung a foot or more 
above the water, and at the same moment he got his feet firmly- 
planted on another branch below the water, and there he clung. 
The boughs bent and swayed, and the torrent pressed him hard, 
but he had a good balance and a grip like steel. At his feet 
lay Ruth. Her face was white, but she smiled faintly as she 
looked up and saw her lover almost over her. 

“ Darling, I’ve only one hand to help you with. If you can 
hold it I think I can pull you in.” 

“I think I can hold, love, if you will be quick. The pain 
is killing me,” answered Ruth. 

He took a fresh hold of his bough, bent forward, and put out 
his left arm. 

For a moment Ruth hesitated. “ I shall pull you down, 
love,” she moaned, in dreadful pain. 

Abel seized her wrist, and tried to draw her toward him, but 
Ruth gave an involuntary scream. 

“You will drag my arm out,” she cried. 

“O Ruth, do be sensible! Hold my wrist with both hands, 
and I can save you.” 

She did as she was told, and Abel put forth all the strength 
he could command in his ticklish position, and made a strong 
pull and a steady and a long. It was of no use. The flood 
could beat Abel at pulling. 

“ I can’t do it yet, Ruth. Can you hold on again to the 
willow a bit, while I get some breath?” gasped Abel. 

“ No, love; never mind. I’m tired,” murmured Ruth. Her 
hold on Abel suddenly was loosened, and she went like a flash. 

For one awful moment Abel stood horrorstruck, before he 
threw himself headlong after her. The rush of the torrent bore 
her up, and Abel caught her ere she sank. His arm went 
round her, and she lay against him perfectly quiet; she might 
have been dead, so still was she. Abel drew her close to him 
and lay upon the water, and as they were swept along he looked 
up at the sky and at the trees, and told himself that the wind 
had changed, and they would have fine weather probably to- 
morrow at Voe. It had already ceased raining, and over the 
narrow valley hung a slowly moving cloud that was black as 
night itself, and covered as with a pall woods and waters, fields 
and houses, cattle and men. 

There was something almost delightful— fearfully and deli- 
ciously delightful— in keeping Ruth and himself afloat, and let- 
ting the deep bellowing spate bear them along. Abel heard 
voices and men shouting on both sides of the flood, and he 


THE CONSEQUENCES ~ 


J 95 


wondered, as one in a dream might wonder, if they were shout- 
ing to him. Of course he was in danger, and would have to 
make an effort soon ; but there was no great hurry — the flood 
was carrying them along beautifully! As for drowning, the 
idea was absurd, and fit only for a fish. And Ruth, how 
sweetly quiet she was! Any other girl would have screamed, 
and floundered, and clutched him wildly; perhaps, after all’ 
she had been in the water long enough, ay, or even — too lo?ig. 
Something snapped in his ears with a sharp twang — it was the 
delicious, dreamy, dangerous spell that had been luring him to 
death. He peered close into Ruth’s face ; her eyes were closed, 
and she made no movement of life when he called her by name 
again and again. 

“ Oh, what a fool! I believe I’ve been asleep on the top of 
the flood! We must get out of this pretty quick somehow, or 
it will be all up with us both,” said Abel within himself, as he 
clutched Ruth firmly, and looked out over the dark waters for 
some means of salvation. Another moment and a light branch 
whisked across his face; he snatched quickly at it, touched it 
with the tips of his fingers, and it was gone. More than once 
he grasped a slender branch in his hand, and held on with all 
the strength of his strong muscles; but the branches slipped 
through his wet fingers, and the mighty torrent, with a local 
hiss of anger, hurried him and his precious burden onward. 

“Now,” thought Abel, “ it begins to look queer. As I grow 
weak the spate grows strong; and I’m thinking we shall be at 
the bridge in a jiffy, and then one bump and the game’s up. 
Those fellows are shouting as if they saw us, which they surely 
can’t, seeing I’m the only fellow in Voe with cat’s eyes. I 
wonder could I raise a shout?” He sent forth a curious mix- 
ture of a noise, half yell and half cry, that travelled through 
the darkness, shrill and weird, and made more than one stout 
heart shake. There came back answering shouts, that sounded 
a long way off; and Abel had no more spare energy at hand. 

Suddenly there loomed up in front of him a column of black- 
ness, which looked like a human figure standing erect on the 
top of the flood; as he drew near he could see its arms out- 
stretched, as if to bar the way. The dark, strange figure now 
seemed to rush upon them: it was uncanny to look upon, and 
Abel held his breath for the first time in his life with a sensa- 
tion of fear. Another moment and Abel was hurled with great 
force against the black form. It was curiously smooth and soft, 
and yielded to the pressure like a feather bed. The instant he 
touched it Abel knew what it was. It was the trunk of a de- 
cayed crab-tree, that grew on a knoll in the meadow between 


196 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


the bridge and the wood, and was covered with a dense growth 
of ivy. Abel thrust his arm deep into the ivy, and got a strong 
hold upon a thick stem. 

“ Thank God for a bit of breathing-time ! Though I’m think- 
ing I can’t hold on long. This beastly spate pulls like a 
crane,” said Abel, as he tried to ease the tremendous strain of 
the current by crowding Ruth and himself deeper into the ivy. 
It was preternaturally dark, he thought, as he glanced at the 
sinister canopy of storm-cloud overhead. He was unable to 
discern the outline of the bridge, which was not more than 
three hundred yards distant, though he could distinctly catch 
the peculiar sound of the waters as they struck the huge but- 
tresses, and failed back upon the low meadow-lands on either 
side. 

There were people on the bridge, and on Yewdle Brig road, 
which was high and dry, and not farther from the crab-tree 
than a good thrower could send a cricket-ball; as the breeze 
favored him, he could hear the hum of their voices. He put 
his head as far round the tree as he well could, and when the 
breeze seemed in the right direction he sent out a long, wailing 
cry. Instantly there came a great shout from the bridge; they 
had heard him and knew he was alive. Abel made another 
wailing cry, hoping that it would enable them to guess his 
whereabouts and condition. He heard them shouting to him 
from half a dozen points, but he could make out nothing they 
said. 

Presently every sound died away, and nothing was in his ear 
but the awful roar of the flood; and Abel began to think that 
the villagers had renounced all hope of saving him and Ruth, 
what with the fearful height of the torrent and the appalling 
darkness that filled the valley. And yet, he thought, it was 
not like Christopher Kneebone to desert a fellow at a pinch; 
he had stood by Kneebone when he was hard pushed on the 
hillside, and it would be odd if Kneebone did not do him as 
good a service. All the same, the total cessation of all human 
sound made a horrible silence. And the silence only accentu- 
ated the fact that the muscles of Abel’s right arm, with which 
he clung to the ivy, were beginning to feel as though they were 
cords of fire imbedded in his quivering flesh. In a few min- 
utes, at the longest, he would be compelled to let loose, and 
then — ha! what sound is that? 

The friends and neighbors of Abel Boden and his cousin 
Ruth had not deserted them in their hour of peril. Several 
loungers on the bridge, watching the flood, had noticed a horse- 
man coming toward Voe at a furious gallop. As he drew 


THE CONSEQUENCES 


I97 


nearer, first the horse was recognized as Squire Saxton’s black 
thoroughbred mare, and then the rider was made out to be none 
other than the squire himself; he was bare-headed, and was 
seen to be urging his flying horse with the whip. This made 
no little sensation among the onlookers, who judged that there 
was certainly something up. Excitement is exciting, if only 
in the way in which it swiftly collects material to work upon. 
A small crowd gathered in no time at the Voe end of the road. 
In a few moments the squire came dashing into the village. 

“ There’s a boat coming down with the flood, and a girl in 
it! ” he shouted, as he drew rein. 

At this every man, woman, and child gave a quick gasp of 
horror, and looked at each other hopelessly. 

“We must save her. Do you hear, men? we must save her!” 

“Ay, sir; but what mun we do?” 

“ I’ll tell you.” And he told them. 

In fifteen minutes all Voe was on the bridge, save some of 
the best swimmers, who went out to skirt the edge of the flood, 
watching and hoping for a chance of snatching the poor girl 
from the jaws of death. Who was she? At first nobody knew, 
and then in a trice everybody knew. It was Ruth Boden. In 
the same mysterious manner everybody knew at the same mo- 
ment that Abel Boden had gone after her. Presently the boat 
came rushing along, bottom upward; by the same token poor 
Ruth was either dead or with Abel. 

The strange darkness came, and they could see nothing, and 
do nothing but shout and shout again, with small hope of any 
answer other than the mocking echo. The children cowered, 
the women wept, the men moved here and there restlessly, and 
talked only in whispers. Among them were the squire, and 
Balthasar Phythian, Ruth’s new lover, and Christopher Knee- 
bone. Of a sudden every heart stood still, as out of the very 
heart of the roaring flood came a human cry, half yell, half 
wail. They shouted back, but there was no answer; and many 
thought it was poor Abel Boden’s soul that made that strange 
cry as it was taking its flight from earth. By-and-by came 
two more cries, and they knew then that Abel still lived, and 
they guessed that he was holding on to some tree or other. 
The excitement was intense. Whereabouts was he ? Had he 
got Ruth with him ? How could they rescue him ? He seemed 
to be pretty near, somewhere in the meadow-lands below ; they 
called out to him, but got no reply. Evidently he could not 
hear them. 

The squire, Kneebone, and Balthasar held a council in the 
middle of the bridge; orders were given quickly, and in a few 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


I98 

seconds the crowded bridge was absolutely deserted. This oc- 
casioned the dreadful silence that sent a chill to Abel’s heart. 
But the silence was soon broken. On to the bridge came 
pouring men and women, dragging ropes, carrying beams of 
wood, and bundles of thick sticks, and rags, and even sheets, 
and cans of paraffin-oil and petroleum, while others wheeled a 
barrel of tar. Many lanterns were flitting about and moving 
up and down; so that altogether it was a curious scene — a 
moving drama in the darkness. 

The word was passed for silence, and the low hubbub ceased 
as Kneeboneran on to the bridge with a sea-captain’s speaking- 
trumpet in his hand. He put the trumpet to his mouth, and 
over the waters went booming the words: 

“Ahoy, there! Abel, my lad, where are you? Give us a 
signal.” 

For some brief space of time there was no reply, and then 
there came from out of the roaring waters Abel’s owl-cry, more 
weird and melancholy than the cry of any bird. Yet to the 
listeners on the bridge it sounded sweeter than any lark-song 
or cuckoo-call, and a great shout of joy drowned for a time the 
thunder of the flood. 

Another silence fell on the crowd. 

“ Is Ruth Boden with you ?” shouted Kneebone through his 
trumpet. “Give us the same call if she is.” 

A cold shiver ran through the crowd. There was a dreadful 
spell of silence ere the same weird cry came out of the dark- 
ness with startling distinctness. A great thrill went through 
the crowd, followed by a distinct sound that was partly sigh 
and partly sob, and after that came a mighty roar that finally 
articulated itself into a thundering hurrah. 

Another sudden silence. 

“Hold on, lad, five minutes longer,” shouted Kneebone. 
Then he turned to the crowd and said: 

“ Now, my lads, to work in no time, and if we get them out 
there is a pound apiece for you to-morrow morning.” 

They needed no wage to prompt their humanity; but they 
worked none the slower and none the less willingly for Knee- 
bone’s promise of a pound a head. They made dozens of 
torches and dropped them over the bridge, holding them with 
strings, so that the face of the waters gleamed with light all 
about the arches. To long beams of wood they fastened strong 
cords, and these they lowered to within a foot of the water : 
they stretched across the entire front of the three central arches. 
They made rope-chairs with boarded seats; and half a dozen 
brave fellows were instantly ready to be fastened into the chairs 


THE CONSEQUENCES 


I 99 


and lowered until their feet were in the water: all this in the 
hope that Abel might be able to seize them, or they Abel, and 
so save him from going under the bridge. 

The current at the bridge was something fearful to contem- 
plate; yet it was there he had to be saved, or not at all. In 
a very few minutes all was ready. The torches flamed and 
glared, and threw weird lights upon the front of the bridge, 
and over the wide waste of water about it. Men and women 
held the ropes that held the torches and the beams and the 
chairs. 

Holding a torch aloft in his left hand, Kneebone put up his 
trumpet to his mouth. Instantly there was a dead silence. 

“Abel, do you see our plan? There are planks afore the 
arches held with ropes. Do you think you can catch on ? ” 

In a few moments the strange cry came back in response, but 
it seemed very feeble. 

“Give us a call when you are ready, and come on, my lad, 
and God help you ! ” shouted Kneebone. Then to the crowd he 
said: “Now, lads, to the rescue! Keep quiet, and keep your 
eyes open. We ought to see them twenty yards at least.” 

Half a minute went by, and then Abel’s cry came moaning 
out of the darkness. A thrill went through the crowd, and 
every eye was fixed on the black, rushing torrent below. There 
was a short and painful silence, during which no one stirred a 
muscle, and every one seemed to hold his breath. Suddenly 
Kneebone’s voice rang out: 

“Look alive! there they come! the middle arch, lads — the 
middle arch! A hundred pounds to the man who stops them. 
My lad, my darling lad, keep cool, keep cool ! ” 

On they came, in the very middle of the flood, a dark, strug- 
gling mass, lit up by the glare of the torches. “He’s got it.” 
“ He’s missed. ” “ Yes. ” “ No. ” “ Yes. ” 

“Help, help! in God’s name, help!” 

The cry came from a brave fellow lashed into a rope-chair. 
He had caught Abel as he fell loose from the beam, and now 
was holding on to him by his flannel vest with one hand. It 
was a task that would have beaten the strength of a Samson. 

Instantly Kneebone seized a rope attached to the plank from 
which Abel’s grasp had slipped, and bidding the men who held 
it to keep a firm grip, he swung himself over the bridge and 
slid down on to the plank. Abel was beyond his reach, but 
not so Ruth. He seized her by the shoulder, and together the 
two men did their level best to lift the arm-locked lovers on to 
the plank. But it was all in vain, until another arm was sud- 
denly outstretched, and its hand took hold of Abel’s shoulder. 


200 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“Now then, all together! One — two — three, and — heave 
Oh!” said a voice which Kneebone knew at once belonged to 
Gentleman Phythian. Slowly, slowly, slowly they came! It 
was like pulling up a tree by its roots. The water-demon 
hugged them tighter than any soil; but the three men knew 
they were heaving two lives from death. Up, up, up they 
brought them, until, O joy, Abel was seated on the plank, still 
supporting Ruth, who lay upon him unconscious! Kneebone 
and Phythian knelt upon the plank, and supported Abel and 
Ruth; while from the bridge they lowered brandy to the man 
in the chair, who swung to and fro as he poured it into a little 
pewter measure ere he gave it to Ruth and Abel. 

With infinite trouble and danger the three men got ropes 
carefully fastened about Ruth, and she was hauled up safely 
on to the bridge. It was almost equal trouble to get up Abel, 
for he was utterly spent, and helpless as a kitten. After him 
came Phythian and Kneebone, and finally the man in the chair. 
The crowd did no cheering now; the men laughed hysterically, 
and shook each by the hand, while the women made no bones 
about it, but just cried sweetly for joy. Ruth, of course, they 
took home, and the doctor went with her; but at Kneebone’s 
order Abel was carried to Rook’s Nest. As Kneebone was 
walking up the hill a little in the rear of Abel, Nathan Wass 
came to his side, and taking his hand, said in a low tone: 

“Blacksmith, thou wast once a shepherd, I’m thinking, and 
went by the same name as thy son there. O thou dear rogue, 
thou dear rogue! There, I’ll see thee to-morrow, Abel Boden.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


IN FRONT OF THE FORGE 

Abel’s forecast was right: there was fine weather the next 
day. The clouds rolled away as if by magic, unveiling a sky 
of the tenderest blue imaginable. As went the clouds, so went 
the waters; and twelve hours after the scene on the bridge, the 
Scarthin was itself again, a small, sweet-voiced, picturesque, 
dear old thing. And Dame Betty Iperson dragged herself down- 
stairs, as, fortunately, she dragged herself up, and to her amaze- 
ment found herself able to totter about the house again, and 
put things to rights. But where the spate had been, the grass 
was covered with a dark-colored slimy mud, which emitted for 
some days a disagreeable odor. When the miller reached 
home, some hours later than he had expected, he found Ruth 
in bed: she was conscious, but the doctor forbade all conversa- 
tion. As for Abel, in two days he was on his legs again, and 
seemed as fit as ever. 

The evening after the rescue was a memorable one in Voe. 
As it happened, it was May-day. The sun was a good hour 
from the horizon, when all Voe gathered itself in open meet- 
ing, under the big tree in front of the smithy: in a cart were 
seated the squire, and Gentleman Phythian, and Christopher 
Kneebone; by the cart-shafts stood Nathan Wass, tall, vener- 
able of aspect, with a look of renewed youth and unmistakable 
happiness upon his hale old visage. Miller Boden was con- 
spicuous by his absence. Presently there was a cry of “ Hats 
off! ” as Squire Saxton rose to address the meeting. 

“No, my friends, keep your hats on; the sun is still warm.” 

At this some one shouted: “Three cheers for the squire!” 
which were given with a will. The meeting was evideptly 
emotional and highly sympathetic. 

Said the squire: “I am not much of a speech-maker, and I 
am not here to make a speech; I will leave that to others who 
can do it better than I can. I came to support our friend here, 
the blacksmith.” (Cheers.) “ He is a new man, and with new 
men go new ways. But he has shown himself to be of the right 
metal.” (Loud cheers.) “And I think that if we suit him he 
will suit us.” (Loud cheers.) 


202 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“I will now introduce to you Mr. Christopher Kneebone. ” 

Kneebone rose to his feet, and moved to the front of the cart 
very deliberately. He was dressed, I believe, in the very same 
suit of dark-blue serge that he wore at the great sale; his fin- 
gers played with his chestnut beard, and many of the Voese 
noted that the wooden toothpick was still between his teeth: 
it may be as well to observe that, in all probability, this tooth- 
pick was not the same as the one he munched at the sale. When 
the cheering died away, he said: 

“Men and women and children of Voe, I want to thank the 
squire for what he said about me, and I want to thank you for 
the way in which you said, ‘It is a vote.’ I like a unanimous 
vote when it is in my favor.” (Laughter.) “ I’m glad to hear 
I suit you; and I will say this to your faces though it cost me 
your friendship — you suit me first rate ! ” (Laughter and cheers.) 
“ This, it seems, is a sort of love-meeting, and I am going to 
make love to you all. So, if there’s a jealous husband here, I 
would advise him to escort his wife home immediately.” 
(Roars of laughter.) “Of course a foreigner like me ” — (here 
he glanced at Nathan Wass, who cried, “Hear, hear ’’with 
gusto) — “cannot be expected to find out the best qualities of 
country and people all at once; but some children can eat 
sweetmeats quicker than others. Yes, I see you’ve caught on. 
And so all I will say on that point is — I am one of those chil- 
dren! I’ve tasted you and your country, and, God knows, I 
find you sweeter than the honeycomb.” (Tremendous ap- 
plause.) “ Now I’ve something else to say. My friends, look 
at the Scarthin. Look at the sky. Could any two things in 
the world have changed more than they have in the last twenty- 
four hours? Yet I know one thing that has undergone as great 
a change, and that is my heart, my hope, my outlook on life. 
This time last night I thought it was all over with him — them, 
both of them. Why do I feel so strongly about it ? Why, 
they were both so young, so good, so brave! If the lad were 
my own flesh and blood, I couldn’t love him more than I do.” 

There was a tremor in the speaker’s voice, and somehow the 
women began to snivel, while the men glanced at each other 
suspiciously, and their features became demoralized. After a 
pause, continued Kneebone: 

“There, we will change the subject a bit. I’ve not for- 
gotten that, last night, I promised every man of you a pound 
apiece.” 

At this there was an outburst of cries. “ We dunna want it.” 
“We wunna have it.” “We wunna rob a man, like that.” 
“The will’s as good as the deed.” 


IN FRONT OF THE FORGE 


203 


Said Kneebone: “Friends, it’s just like you to talk like that. 
I like you none the worse for it. But I’m a man of my word. 
And I can stand it. Don’t fret; it will none break me. There’s 
a good trade doing at the forge here, which brings in enough 
to keep an old bachelor fellow like me in luxury to the end of 
the chapter. So you will just make no bones about it, but take 
your sovereign and be thankful you earned it.” (Loud cheers.) 
“There are a lot of women here to-night; and I’m thinking 
they were with us last night. They held ropes, they carried 
wood, they made torches; they faced the pelting rain, and 
the strange and awful darkness that fell upon us; and altogether 
they showed themselves to be your fit mates. Men, I’m not 
going to back down on the women. I’m going to ask them to 
do me the favor of accepting a gold sovereign apiece as a 
keepsake. ” 

Then there was cheering, if you like! The men had cheered 
at their own good luck; but at the luck of their wives and 
sweethearts, and mothers and sisters, their enthusiasm rose like 
a spate, and round after round of cheering went echoing into 
the woods. Simple and unlettered were the Voese — rude and 
crude; on principle wearing their manners and their morals 
with the rough side out. Still, they were of such kind and qual- 
ity of human stuff that, though they were in the habit of daily 
remembering that there were two halfpence to every penny, it 
was not the extra sovereign that touched them. It was the 
sentiment of the thing — the manly, loyal, Anglo-Saxon rever- 
ence and chivalry in regard of womanhood. In the sympa- 
thetic understanding of which the English prince has no prior- 
ity over the English peasant, nor the English gentleman over 
the English boor; it is the divine birth-gift of the race. And, 
by the same token, a man may still be proud of being an Eng- 
lishman. 

It was some time before Kneebone could go on. When they 
had quieted down he said: 

“I wasn’t going to stop that cheering — not a bit of it. I 
know well enough what set you going and what kept you go- 
ing, and, to tell you the truth, I did a bit of cheering myself! 
But now, try and keep quiet till I’ve done, and I won’t say 
much more. I am going to give two pounds apiece to every 
one of you that sat in a rope-chair. As for my friend there, 
Tim Blackum the pedler, he saved my — both their lives. I 
owe him a hundred pounds! ” A burst of hurrahs. “ I’ll pay 
him what I owe him to-morrow, at the same time as I settle 
with all of you; and I hope that instead of three donkeys, Tim 
will drive from this day forward a string of six. 


204 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“A few more words and then I’ve done. Friends, I feel I 
want to do something on my own account to commemorate the 
blessed rescue. If I were a millionaire and lived in a big city, 
I’d build — I don’t know what; a cathedral, I think, or a great 
hospital. I must be content, however, to do what I can. I’ll 
tell you what I’ve been thinking of. In the summer we are all 
right — we can lounge in the open of an evening. But in win- 
ter there is no place open to us but the Nag’s Head. When we 
want to have a social glass, the Nag’s Head is a first-rate place 
to get it in. But it isn’t always that we want a glass; happen 
we should sometimes be better without it. Well, now, I will 
tell you what I thought of doing. I haven’t had time yet to 
work it all out clearly in my mind, but I’ll give you a rough 
idea of what I’m thinking of. You can talk it over among 
yourselves, and I shall be glad to listen to any suggestions you 
may have to make. My notion is to build a big stone build- 
ing, larger and handsomer than anything they ever dreamt of 
in Yewdle Brig.” (Cheers.) “ I would christen it Memorial 
Hall, and give it to the parish, to be used by the people of Voe 
forever. Half of the building should be for the use of males, 
and half for females. There should be coffee-rooms, rooms 
for games such as chess and dominos and suchlike, billiard- 
rooms, music-rooms, reading-rooms, smoking-rooms, a skittle- 
alley, a gymnasium, and first-rate swimming-baths, and — I 
don’t know what else. Anything in reason that could be 
thought of, as likely to be of real service, whether for comfort, 
instruction, or amusement. And it shan’t cost one of you a 
penny. All I ask is, Will you use it honestly and fairly if I 
give it you ? ” 

“Yes.” “Yes.” “We will.” “Try us.” “Trust us.” 
“Kneebone forever!” “Hip, hip, hip, hurrah!” And three 
hundred voices swelled the cry. 

From his waistcoat-pocket Kneebone drew forth a fresh, 
clean, spear-pointed Yankee toothpick, and put it between 
his teeth: there was a smile on his face, and a pleasant light 
in his soft gray eyes. 

“ Thank you,” he said. “ Then it’s a bargain. There’s but 
one difficulty — where shall we build it? My idea is that the 
prettiest site in the village is there, in the Ox-croft.” 

He pointed to a rich tree-studded pasture, about two acres 
in size, a little higher up the road. Instantly all eyes were 
riveted on Squire Saxton. Continued Kneebone: 

“ I would put up a fine Gothic building, one that would show 
well from Owlcote Park. I wonder if we could persuade our 
squire to sell me the Ox-croft? I’ll pay him his own price 


IN FRONT OF THE FORGE 


205 

• for it. He paused, and turned round and looked at the 
squire. 

There was a dead silence for nearly half a minute; it seemed 
a very long time to the crowd. Slowly the squire rose, and 
came a step or two forward. He looked at the crowd below 
him for some moments without speaking. Then he said: 

“We are not strangers to each other. You know that the 
Saxtons never sell their land. We buy and we keep. The 
money value of the Ox-croft — it is one of the best bits of land 
in the parish — is very little to me compared with the land it- 
self. But — well — I didn’t dream we had such a wealthy black- 
smith in the place, nor such a generous blacksmith. What he 
proposes to do will be a very novel experiment in a small vil- 
lage like Voe. But I think the spirit of the thing is noble — 
noble and fine, and it commands my sympathy. As to the Ox- 
croft ” — turning to Kneebone, “do you really want it?" 

“ It is the best site in the village, squire.” 

“Well — it’s against my principle to sell land. But I will 
tell you what I will do — I will give it to you." 

As he sat down, Kneebone sprang up. “Think of it — all 
the beautiful Ox-croft for a pleasure-ground! We will have a 
tennis-court, and a fives-court, and a place for flowers, and a 
fountain with gold and silver fish. Now then, for the squire 
— Hip, hip, hip, hurrah! And again — Hip, hip, hip, hurrah! 
And again — Hip, hip, hip, hurrah!” 

Never was such shouting heard in Voe before. They sang 
the National Anthem through, from end to end, and marched 
through the village singing, in equal honor of the squire and 
Kneebone: “ For he’s a jolly good fellow.” And they were 
about right. 

After the meeting, Kneebone had been in the house but a short 
time when Nathan Wass called: except at the meeting, they had 
not met since the previous night. Kneebone met him at the 
front door, under the porch that was covered with red honey- 
suckle not yet in flower. 

“Ha! good evening. You are the man that can see a hole 
through a ladder. Will you come in?” 

Said Nathan, in a low voice: “Where’s the lad?” 

“ In bed and asleep.” 

“You have a housekeeper?” 

“She is out — just gone. Won’t be back for an hour.” 

“O thou dear rogue! thou dear rogue! To think thou art 
really back again at the owd wum! To think thou hast been 
here these months, and I didna know it! O lad, lad! I’ve 
lived for naught else but to put eyes on thee once more,” said 


2 0 6 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


the old man, holding Kneebone’s hand in both his own, and 
speaking with a quiver of joy in his voice. Kneebone’s other 
hand came atop of Nathan’s; laughter was in his voice and 
tears in his eyes, as he said: 

“ Dear old man, how know’st that I am — anybody ? ” 

“ I stood nigh thee on th’ brig, and heard thee pray God in 
a small voice to ‘save my lad! ’ Thinks I, I know that voice. 
I looked hard at thee, and our eyes met. Lord! a straw would 
ha’ felled me. I knew thee, lad, in a flash. Though thou art 
altered — wondrously altered.” Then they went indoors, and 
there followed the talk of talks — the talk of the returned wan- 
derer after long years of absence. The old man listened to 
Kneebone spellbound, as he told of his wide travels, his strange 
adventures, his many perils; of how he made money and lost 
it, and made it again. 

“ The shepherd in me — well, Nathan, it came to be as a 
dream that I had ever been a simple Peakshire shepherd. Yet, 
in a way, it has clung to me to the last. Gold-diggings and 
silver-mines and cattle-raising — what I got from them I lost 
again. But wool, Nathan, wool has made me. The money it 
brought in stuck to me like pitch. I guess it was the shepherd 
in me that did it.” 

Said Nathan, later on: “ But hanna the time come now for 
thee to step out afore th’ world as th’ lad’s father?” 

“That’s a meal I’m mightily hungry for, Nathan; but I 
won’t eat it yet. I want to see how Luke is going to shape 
himself about my lad. I’m suspicious he means mischief. 
But I’m not sure, and I wouldn’t misjudge him for anything. 
I must know exactly where I stand as regards Luke, when I 
make myself known. At present I’m in a fog. I am Chris- 
topher Kneebone.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


QUETZALCOATL 

It was a pious belief with Janoca Phythian that if she was 
out of bed after eleven o’clock, the next day invariably found 
the exquisite health of her body and soul distinctly impaired; 
that her physical and moral constitution lost tone and balance; 
and that it was her right and duty to conclude with her con- 
science a twenty-four hours' truce of God. Did her thoughts 
sit brooding low, or run only among the brown furrows and the 
springing grasses, and absolutely refuse to take wing and soar 
and sing? Did she fail in devotion, and neglect her daily medi- 
tation, forget the sick, and refuse the needy; uncharitably sus- 
pect the butler of receiving a percentage on the tradesmen’s 
bills, or accuse Phoebe, the dainty housemaid, of unbecoming 
freedom of deportment toward the married gardener, William 
the silent, and the sly? For these things, while the white flag 
fluttered, she declined to be any more responsible than she was 
for sleepiness, or headache, or arithmetical blunders in her ac- 
counts. 

An honorable and high-minded woman was Janoca Phythian 
in all her private relations with Heaven; there was nothing 
mean or paltry in her composition; and while she held it as a 
prime rule of conduct to employ no vulgar precaution either to 
avert the wrath or to invite the favor SuperUm , her first and 
finest endeavor was to rid her soul of all religious sharp-prac- 
tice, double-dealing, finesse, and pretence: hence the necessity 
for a tru-ce of God arose but seldom — not that she attributed a 
nice particularity, a severe parsimony, a greedy rigor to the Dii 
superii , or failed to apply to the same quarter that saying of 
Mr. Burke : “ It is the nature of all greatness not to be exact j ” 
it was simply because she felt that she owed it to herself to be 
with immortals as with mortals — an honorable lady. 

On the night of the flood it was one o’clock ere she wished 
her brother “good-night,” and kissed him as was her wont. 
On the following night, the hands of the softly ticking clock 
on the library mantelpiece were creeping toward the midnight 
hour, yet Janoca only rose and gracefully touched the fire with 


208 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


the poker, and then reseated herself, opposite her brother, in her 
low black-and-gold wicker-chair upholstered in old gold satin. 

Balthasar had just finished his account of the meeting in 
front of the forge. It was easy to see that his narration had 
fallen upon no dull ears and no unsympathetic heart ; for Ja- 
noca’s sweet and noble face was radiant with animation, and 
her lovely dark eyes flashed and sparkled with amusement, and 
amazement, and delight. Balthasar leaned back in his arm- 
chair and smoked slowly, and, looking with proud affection at 
his sister, thought within himself that Jano was really the 
handsomest, and stateliest, and sweetest, and best woman in 
the county. 

“ Do you know him at all ? ” inquired Jano, referring to Knee- 
bone. 

“ I never spoke to him before last night.” 

“ What sort of a man is he ? Is he very rough ? ” 

“Not at all; indeed there’s a certain polish about him; but 
it isn’t thick enough to disguise his native manner and his real 
nature.” 

“He is not a vulgar man, then?” 

“ There’s nothing vulgar about him.” 

“ He had a good chance of showing his vulgarity, if he had 
any, to-night, I should think?” 

“Yes, first-rate; but he didn’t do it.” 

“He must be very rich? Just think of it! — why, the rescue 
will cost him three or four hundred pounds, to say nothing of 
the unique Memorial Hall!” 

“I don’t quite understand it at all. One thing is certain — 
he hasn’t made his money at blacksmithing. ” 

“ Of course not. He is probably a man with a history. 
He has travelled far, and seen strange things. If his char- 
acter is as good as his individuality seems to be distinct, he 
is no common man. He is worth knowing, brother.” 

“ Well, suppose I introduce you to him ? ” suggested Balthasar, 
with an air of serious waggishness. 

A smile crossed Janoca’s face as she answered: 

I should not object. Your commonplace man is so multi- 
tudinous and vapid, that one is glad to taste the salt even of 
singularity. Besides, he deserves some recognition for our 
Ruth’s sake. And what are you going to do for the young man 
who saved our dear girl’s life?” 

“The picturesque blacksmith?” 

“Yes. We must do something handsome, brother. He 
risked his life for her, you know; and we must not let Mr. 
Kneebone shame us.” 


QUETZALCOATL 


209 


“You are right; the young man will doubtless expect some 
reward for his gallantry. They are cousins; though, of course, 
no sane man would jump into the spate to save the life of any 
cousin. His feeling was probably deeper and — and — deeper 
than that of cousinship. Yes; he deserves a reward, and — I 
dare say he will get it.” 

There was a strange dryness in her brother’s speech and tone 
which Janoca did not quite understand. She gave him a quick, 
interrogatory glance ere she said: 

“You would not put a less value on Ruth’s life than the 
blacksmith — a stranger — does ? ” 

“ I hope not. I would have breasted the spate to save her at 
any rate. But do you know, Jano, I listened to Kneebone’s 
talk very closely; and from what he said — or rather, perhaps 
from what he did not say — I couldn’t help thinking that he 
thought a great deal more of Abel’s rescue than of Ruth’s. If 
he were a philosopher, of course I should not be surprised at his 
recognition of the superiority of the male life over the female. 

But ” He paused, for Jano seemed in a brown study. He 

smoked until she came out of it. 

“Are you going to see this man, do you think, soon?” 

Balthasar reflected a while. 

“Yes, I ought to see him soon.” 

“ What about ? ” 

Balthasar had no desire to let Janoca know what was his 
business with Kneebone; but the events of last night had only 
made it the more necessary that steps should be taken to extri- 
cate both himself and Ruth from their false position. 

“ I thought — as he seems to be a man of ideas — to have a 
chat with him about — young Boden,” said Balthasar, unblush- 
ingly. 

“ Yes, a very good idea, too — let him know we mean to mark 
our sense of gratitude to the brave young fellow. When shall 
you see him ? ” 

“ Perhaps to-morrow. ” 

“Brother, I should like to have some talk with Mr. Christo- 
pher Kneebone about this Memorial Hall. Will you say as 
much to him, and ask him to come and see us?” 

“With pleasure, Jano.” 

“ Thank you, dear brother. Good-night.” 

She bent down and kissed her brother, and retired, leaving 
Balthasar to meditate upon the inconsequent and capricious 
ways of women. 

The next day, after luncheon, Balthasar called at the miller’s. 
He met the doctor, who, in answer to his inquiries, said: 

14 


2 10 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“No, there is no danger. I was a little nervous yesterday, 
but it passed off. A few days’ nursing, and she will be all 
right again. Oh, yes, yes; there is no reason why you shouldn t 
see her. Don’t excite her, and don’t let her talk much — then 
I think a short visit might do her good.” 

So Balthasar asked to see Ruth, and was shown upstairs by 
Jane; the miller was not in the house. 

Ruth was clad in a pretty mauve dressing-gown, and lay on 
a couch near the window, in the sunshine. Her color came 
softly, and her eyes lighted up with pleasure, as Balthasar came 
forward and took her hand, saying: 

“ I am so glad to see you are pulling through so nicely and 
sensibly. Many a girl would have gone and had a fever, and 
a raving spell. Then you would have probably made another 
sensation by — by letting the cat out of the bag.” 

Ruth smiled as she answered: 

“ I believe it was the fear of doing what you say that kept 
me in my senses.” 

“Ha! well, my child, I hope there will be no necessity for 
us to imprison any cat or kit much longer. I should think the 
miller will recognize some one’s claim, after what has hap- 
pened ? ” 

“He doesn’t dream of it. And why should he?” 

“What do you mean, Penelope?” asked Balthasar, struck 
with something in her tone. 

“ I have thought that Abel might have stood a good chance 
now with father if ” She paused. 

“Do you really think so?” asked Balthasar earnestly. 

“Yes; it is now or never, surely.” 

“Ha! then am I full of sorrow. Yet you will believe me, 
I know, when I say that I did it for the best. I thought only 
of you.” 

“O Mr. Phythian, forgive me! I didn’t mean to be un- 
grateful; I didn’t mean to — I wouldn’t wound you for the 
world! If you hadn’t done what you did I don’t know what 
would have happened. But I ” 

“Yes, I know. If we could only have foreseen the spate, 
and you in it, and Abel saving you, it would have altered our 
calculations. Do you know what I am going to do, so soon as 
you are well again? I am going to tell your father, without 
any delay, that I am no longer a suitor for your hand; that 
will be the private version. The public version will be that 
Miss Ruth Boden has declined — and very wisely, too — the at- 
tentions of a dry old stick named Balthasar Phythian. If your 
respected parent, Miss Penelope, had not been so loquacious, 


QUETZALCOATL 


21 1 


there would have been no necessity for a public version at all. 
But, of course, the unexpected always happens. I fear the 
miller will talk strong English tome. But he will not be able 
to blame you, so I do not care a fig. There, you must not 
talk; the doctor says so. I am going now, and I expect Jano 
will be down again soon. Does she bore you?” 

“ Bore me! She is like an angel — a beautiful seraph,” mur- 
mured Ruth. 

Balthasar gave a low laugh, bent down and kissed Penelope 
upon the forehead, and left the room and the house. 

He crossed the bridge and went up the hill till he reached 
the smithery. Kneebone was not there, and a new man — a 
smith engaged for the nonce — said he thought he was in the 
house; so Balthasar went on to Rook’s Nest. The front door 
was open, affording Balthasar a view of the interior that would 
have greatly surprised him forty-eight hours earlier. As it 
was, he was struck with the simple elegance that seemed to 
characterize the place. 

In answer to his knock, an elderly woman appeared, fault- 
lessly neat in her apparel and perfectly trained in deportment. 
She informed Balthasar that the master was out, but she ex- 
pected him back in a few minutes; that young Master Abel, who 
was mending finely, was upstairs lying down ; and would the 
gentleman come inside and wait a few minutes? Or perhaps he 
would prefer to sit outside, “in the heptagarden ” ? She indi- 
cated what looked to be a pretty retreat at the side of the 
house, whither Balthasar betook himself. 

He passed beneath the low-spreading branches of a fine yew, 
and entered a path that ran along the foot of a steep, sloping 
lawn of very modest dimensions. A carefully cut hedge of 
thorn, thickly intertwined with ivy, guarded the path and one 
of the sides, while the other two sides were protected by the 
end of the house and a high stone wall, at the foot of which 
was a long row of red-currant bushes. From the path, a sept- 
angular cutting had been made into the middle of the sloping 
lawn, the sides of which were beautifully curved and turfed, 
and the bottom was paved with large tiles of a bright crimson 
hue. Over this cutting, and supported by posts on either side, 
was a stout cross-bar which served a double purpose. Firstly, 
it supported a prettily striped awning for a tent; and secondly, 
it also supported a couple of those ingenious and supremely 
comfortable inventions known in the States as hammock-chairs. 
The retreat took its name from the cutting, which, in allusion 
to its shape, Kneebone, its maker, dubbed the heptagon, or, as- 
Bridget tongued it, the heptagarden. 


212 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


In a little while Kneebone came into the heptagon. Knee- 
bone got his pipe, Balthasar lit a cigar, and, gently swinging 
side by side in the hammock-chairs, the two men reclined at a 
comfortable angle and had a long talk together. Kneebone 
agreed with Balthasar that the time had come for him to drop 
the character of “The Dummy Lover,” as Balthasar styled 
himself. 

“Old Nathan Wass doesn’t believe in Abel having anything 
to do with his cousin,” remarked Balthasar. 

“Indeed! How’s that?” inquired Kneebone. 

“ The feud, you know, between the two brothers. Nathan 
thinks that old Abel, as he calls him, would strongly object. 
But I don’t know about that. And then, I am thinking the 
shepherd is probably dead by this time.” 

“Yes,” said Kneebone, with a light laugh, “the shepherd is 
probably dead. As to what he would think of his lad wedding 
Ruth Boden, it’s hard to say. If old Abel was pig-headed, or 
mulish, or a nurser of wrath, he would probably object; but 
report and tradition don’t paint him like that. At least I 
never heard they did. Have you ?” 

“ He was, I believe, one of the gentlest-natured men that 
ever lived,” answered Balthasar. 

“You don’t say! Was he quite soft, then?” 

“I think his son will answer for him. They say that when 
he got roused he was worse than a mad bull.” 

“Isn’t it odd how his memory lives on among the natives?” 

“ It will be almost as fresh in Voe a hundred years to come 
as it is to-day. We cannot raise a tragedy here every other 
day, you know; though we came pretty near having one the 
other night. That reminds me: my sister, who keeps house 
for me, is much interested in your Memorial Hall project. 
She laid upon me the pleasant charge, Mr. Kneebone, of invit- 
ing you to come up to the Chase and talk it over with her. 
You will pardon me, but I think you are fortunate in securing 
her sympathy beforehand. She is chary of giving her sympa- 
thy, but with it goes an intelligence that reflects on her brother 
■ — well, disastrously.” 

“I have already heard more than once of Miss Phythian. I 
shall be right down pleased if she will only feather my arrow. 
I am just in want of a woman with ideas; she will be worth 
half a dozen smart men. Yes, indeed, I’ll come with pleasure. 
When shall it be ? ” 

“Would to-morrow evening suit you?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“ Then that is settled. There is another matter I should like 


QUETZALCOATL 


21 3 


to mention to you. I presume you do not know that my sister, 
Jano, is ignorant of my true relation to Penelope — I mean, 
Miss Boden?” 

“Does she think you are really in love with Ruth Boden?” 
asked Kneebone, in a tone of astonishment. 

“ I dare not say what she thinks as to the quality of the sen- 
timent I am supposed to feel ; but as regards the supposed fact 
of our informal engagement, she has not the smallest suspicion 
but what it is real and actual.” 

At this Kneebone laughed heartily, while Balthasar stared 
at him as if curious of his amusement. 

“ You see,” continued Balthasar, in a tone of confidential 
frankness, “ it is a matter of property. It is a wretched nui- 
sance, but one of us must marry and have a child, otherwise the 
property goes where Jano wouldn’t have it go for anything. 
She would marry herself rather than that should happen.” 

“Why doesn’t she, may I ask?” 

“Because the right man has not turned up. He never will. 
He does not exist. But I believe she thinks he does. I tell 
her she is like the Mexican Indians, who look for the coming 
of the divine white man with a long beard and a longer 
name.” 

“You mean Quetzalcoatl ? ” 

“ Quetzalcoatl — yes, that is the name. Is he a friend of 
yours? Not a relative, I hope?” 

Kneebone laughed and said: 

“ That legend is one of the few bits of poetry that cling to 
the Mexican Indians. I’ve heard them tell it many a time, 
and it seemed prettier and sweeter every time. If a man should 
be made in the likeness of the Toltec god of the air — wise, 
gentle-hearted Quetzalcoatl, who stopped his ears at the sound 
of war — happen Miss Janoca Phythian might travel far and fare 
worse if she said him nay.” 

“I only wish he would show himself! Even if he bore the 
name of his great prototype, I would call him Brother Quetz- 
alcoatl with pleasure. Meanwhile, I have to explain matters 
to Jano as best I can. Believe me, I would almost as soon get 
married! I was wondering if I had not better let it out to- 
morrow, when you are there? Will you back me; put in a 
word when I’m dry; suggest an argument when I’m empty?” 

“You may rely on me to do my best, sir. Two men ought 
to be able to tackle and subdue one woman,” said Kneebone, 
laughing. 

“ Thank you, thank you. You are my Popocatepetl.” 

“ You mean — Quetzalcoatl ? ” 


214 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“Ha! yes. The one’s a mountain and the other’s a 

“ A myth.’’ 

“Maybe not, maybe not, Mr. Kneebone.” 

“ Maybe not, maybe not,” murmured Christopher Kneebone 
to himself, half an hour after Balthasar had wished him good- 
night. 


CHAPTER XXV 


JOB ELSE & CO. 

“I’m afraid I’ve got a sort of elephant on my hands. And 
yet no, I won’t say that either. It is more like a young baby; 
all it wants to make it grow up healthy and handsome is good 
nursing and training. It needs a — a mother to look after it, 
nothing more or less.” 

“ I think you are right, Mr. Kneebone. Many similar at- 
tempts, that ought to be a success, prove a failure exactly, I 
think, because they lack the womanly element. But it is go- 
ing to cost you a great deal, not only of money, but of time 
and energy and patience.” 

“ I know it, Miss Phythian; and the worst of it is, I am one 
of those fellows who don’t work well by themselves. I once 
owned a mule that wouldn’t do a day’s work in a month by 
himself; but put him in a span and he would pull till he 
dropped. I am like that mule. Now, if I could only get 
somebody to take an interest in the thing, and work with me, 
I’m thinking we could make a success of it.” 

“ Have you tried my brother? He is ” 

“No, Jano, he is not, begging your pardon. He is angling 
for a fish, and you offer a stone,” quoth Balthasar. 

“I am hoping to secure Mr. Phythian’s help, but, like me, 
he is of the wrong sex. If I were to advertise, I should say: 
Wanted a woman with ideas, brimful of intelligence and energy 
and sympathy, a perfect piece of grace and sweetness and mel- 
ody, to put a living soul of beautiful refinement and sense into 
an inanimate organization.” 

“Then why don’t you advertise?” 

“I have done, as well as I could, Miss Phythian.” 

“Indeed! Where?” 

“ Oh, in the only quarter where I thought there would be 
any chance of its finding a proper billet.” 

“In the Times ? ” 

Yes, there was a sweet smile still on her face as she spoke; 
but did his ears deceive him? Or was there really a delicate 
.and subtile change in her tone, a faint note of coldness and 


2l6 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


wounded pride, like the sudden breath of a glacier over a gar- 
den of roses ? 

“ No, madam, not in the Times. In the — library at Carbel 
Chase! ” 

The force of the remark lay in the fact that the speaker was 
at that moment sitting in the library at Carbel Chase, for the 
first time in his life. He had been there nearly two hours, and 
the time had gone quickly; he was smoking his second cigar, 
and so was Balthasar, who had gradually withdrawn himself 
from an active share in the conversation, so soon as he discov- 
ered that Janoca’s interest in their visitor was sustained. As 
for Janoca, she was in one of her best, if not her most brilliant, 
moods; when brilliant she was apt to dazzle and bewilder and 
overpower, and sometimes provoke. To-night she was sym- 
pathetic, plastic, forgot to be epigrammatic, was innocent of 
satire, was beautifully receptive, and magically soft and grace- 
ful and captivating. 

Kneebone thought she was the supreme embodiment of fas- 
cinating womanhood. She wore a silver-gray dress of silk, 
with a long train; a mass of rich old lace was about her neck 
and bosom, and her only ornament was a brooch in her bosom, 
formed of a group of diamonds that flashed with every move- 
ment of her body. To Kneebone she was like a glorious wine, 
delicious, exhilarating, intoxicating; from her he drank glad- 
ness, merriment, ideas, courage, and took that secret root of 
all good manners and fine breeding — self-possession. So that 
Kneebone also was at his best, and Janoca said to herself, “ I 
was right. He is a man worth knowing.” 

We are always pleased to be able to verify our provisional 
judgments, if only to let our friends know that our prevoyant 
faculty is not contemptible. Janoca found the Blacksmith of 
Voe to be anything but a Jack Wragg. The first thing that 
struck her was his personal appearance — and Janoca had a con- 
tempt for those people who affected to make no count of per- 
sonal appearance, for she held with gentle Spenser that 

“ Soul is Form, and doth the body make.” 

Originally Kneebone must have had a very comely counte- 
nance, before the accident to his nose occurred and the scar 
under his left eye was made; but, though these defects marred 
his good looks, they did not interfere with his good look. He 
looked well ; his beard was really handsome, his eyes were in- 
telligent and winsome, he had a good head and brow, and the 
full expression of his face was remarkably pleasant; there was 
in it agreeable suggestions of experience, of strength, of shrewd- 


JOB ELSE & CO. 


217 


ness, of good-nature and kindly humor. His figure was good, 
and he carried himself with unostentatious dignity. His dress 
was simply blue serge, but Janoca noted that his clothes were 
well cut and well fitted and — well worn. His linen was fine, 
and exquisitely laundered. His manners were good, and so 
was his manner; he seemed perfectly easy, and as far from awk- 
wardness as from affectation. He did not look, nor was he, a 
gentleman; but he did look what in truth he was — a gentleman- 
like, well-to-do, self-made and far-travelled man of the world. 

Janoca liked his quiet, unruffled self-possession, his mild sat- 
ire, his genial humor, his speckled philosophy of life, some- 
times cynical to the ear and the ear only, and sometimes quaint, 
and always with a golden vein of hard sense running through 
it. There was a rhythm in his ideas which Janoca relished; 
they all seemed steeped in the self-same music of sentiment, 
and thereby announced their oneness of brood. Janoca con- 
cluded therefrom that the quickest way from Christopher Knee- 
bone’s brain to his tongue was through his heart. 

No, his ears had not deceived him. It mattered not the least 
bit in the world what the village blacksmith might think of the 
natural and acquired gifts and graces of the mistress of Carbel 
Chase. Of course not. And yet, singular to relate, when 
Janoca Phythian had made the sweet inference that Christopher 
Kneebone did not think that the Perfect Piece, etc., etc., was 
within range of his voice and eye and ear — that same instant 
she was conscious of a little shiver, and of a quick mental re- 
tirement, while in her mind’s eye was the image of a garden of 
roses smitten suddenly by the breath of a glacier! Then, like 
a fierce gust from a hot garden of sweet spices, came his words: 
44 No, madam, not in the Times . In the — library at Carbel 
Chase!” 

It was exceedingly foolish, she knew, but she could not help 
it— she felt the blood burning her face. She threw a quick 
glance at her brother, but it was too late to catch sight of the 
singular spasmodic play of the facial muscles that for a mo- 
ment agitated Balthasar, before he closed his eyes, and robbed 
his face of every trace of emotion; but Kneebone saw it, and 
was not a little amused. 

Janoca lowered her stately head to hide her inopportune 
blushes, hoping that Kneebone would continue the conversa- 
tion. But the cruel man only sat perfectly still, with his lov- 
able soft gray eyes fixed upon her, and wondering to himself, 
as many another man has wondered, wherein lay the undeni- 
able beauty of a blush? The color died away, and Janoca 
raised her head and looked at Kneebone. 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


& 18 

“Do you think that I could really help you?” she asked, 
with a winsome smile. 

“ If you only would, I’d let you have your own way in every- 
thing — do what you like, spend what you like. Why, if I had 
the making of the woman I want, in order to make the Memo- 
rial Hall a success, I should take Miss Phythian as my model,” 
said Kneebone, with nothing of boldness or gallantry in his 
manner — nothing but a quiet, straightforward statement of 
opinion. 

Unconventional in its directness, questionless it was; but 
not the least pleasant characteristic of Christopher Kneebone, 
to the thinking of Janoca Phythian, was the frequent and un- 
expected cropping out of the unconventional in him. Janoca 
bowed graciously in acknowledgment of his sentiment, and said: 

“Then I will do my best to assist you.” A little later she 
said: “You take a great interest in your young blacksmith; do 
you think he is worthy of it?” 

Kneebone laughed. 

“ I don’t know. The chances are that, in strict justice, he is 
not. But I am no stickler for the principle of mere merit; I 
lqok upon it as one of the modern fads. It is popular, of 
course; that is where the irony comes in. Fancy a crowd favor- 
ing the principle of merit! It is nothing less than moral sui- 
cide. So I was not troubled on the score of Abel’s merit — I 
always call him Abel. Kissing goes by favor; when it does 
not, the pleasure of kissing will be dead.” 

“ Hear, hear! ” chimed Balthasar, without opening his eyes. 

“ But people will hardly see it in that light. Why, if you 
were his father you could hardly do more,” said Janoca. 

Kneebone only laughed, and said: 

“ I shouldn’t mind having such a son.” 

Janoca drew from her pocket a small card, and looked at it 
attentively for some moments; then she looked keenly at Knee- 
bone, and then again at the card. This surprised Kneebone, 
and he said: 

“Well, what have you got there, may I ask?” 

Janoca uttered a melodious laugh as she fixed her dark eyes 
on his, and answered: 

“Do you know, Mr. Kneebone, you are very like what that 
young man’s father would have been by now, if you had not — 
met with an accident! ” 

At this the blood came surging into Kneebone’s face. 

“I — I don’t quite understand you,” he stammered, awkward 
for the first time. 

“Well, your forehead is the same; and from what I can see 


JOB ELSE & CO. 


219 

of your mouth, that is the same ; and the eyes — yes, the eyes 
are the very same. You know the eyes seldom change. Look 
for yourself. ” 

She leaned forward and passed the photograph, for such it 
was, to Kneebone. For a moment or two he gazed at it in 
utter bewilderment. Then he turned it round. On the back 
was written: To Alice Duckmanton , from A. B. 

“ It’s the very one — I—” 

“ Gave to Ruth Boden’s mother. Ah ! I thought I was right. 
You are Abel Boden, the long-lost shepherd.” 

“Jano! Jano! Are you mad? What’s that you say? My 
good sir, don’t mind what she says. It’s Jano’s way. Why, 
bless me! you look as if you were — were — as mad as Jano her- 
self. You aren’t really, are you?” 

“ I am, though.” 

“What! mad?” 

“ Oh, no, not that. I am Abel Boden, the long-lost shep- 
herd!” 

Said Balthasar solemnly: “Jano, I know not how long you 
have practised the unhallowed art of witchcraft, but you are 
evidently expert in it; though I have seen no black cat and no 
broomstick about. Tell me truly, is this the brother of Luke 
Boden, the miller ? ” 

Answered Janoca, with like solemnity: 

“Brother, my only witchcraft is my woman’s wit. You have 
heard him. He is Luke Boden’s brother Abel.” 

At this Balthasar rose to his feet, as did Kneebone, who 
wondered what would happen next. For some time the two 
men stood eye to eye in perfect silence. At length Balthasar 
broke the curious stillness with: 

“Abel Boden, a few days ago Nathan Wass told me what 
happened at the quarry years ago, and what happened after- 
ward. And I want to tell you my opinion of you.” 

He paused a moment as Janoca rose and came to his side, 
and, with a . pale face, laid her hand upon his arm. Kneebone’s 
face was set and resolute, and wore a slight frown. No one 
spoke, and Balthasar continued: 

“ My opinion of you is that you are a downright ” (a lit- 

tle involuntary gasp escaped Janoca) — “a downright noble 
fellow! Give me your hand, sir! ” 

“O you foolish creature!” murmured Jano, moving away 
to the far end of the room — not that the curtains needed re- 
arranging, but that she found it convenient to rearrange them. 

“I thought you were going to bully me, sure enough,” 
laughed Kneebone, as he gave to Balthasar the hand-grip of a 


220 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


lifelong friendship. There followed a long talk, in which 
Janoca manifested no little interest, as Kneebone told the his- 
tory of his life and adventures during the past twenty years. 
It was a strange, stirring tale, with episodes romantic and thrill- 
ing, and Janoca found herself to her astonishment burning, 
tingling, and shivering at a story of real life. 

“ And the best of it is, I am actually back again in dear old 
Voe, and have found my lad all right; and though I went away 
a shepherd and came back a blacksmith, I am neither one nor 
the other. I don’t like bragging, though it’s a very useful 
art when it is used artistically; other things being equal, the 
man that can brag the neatest will win the day — that is the 
conclusion I have come to after considerable observation of 
life. Not many honest men can boast three sets of names; I 
can, and I’m not ashamed to sail under any one of them. Two 
of them, Boden and Kneebone, you know; shepherd and black- 
smith ; they belong only to Voe, and no one knows them outside 
of Voe. My third name is of no account at Voe; but at San 
Francisco, and Monte Video, and Melbourne, it’s known pretty 
well. Ask anybody who is Job Else & Company, and they 
will tell you.*’ 

“Job Else & Company,” repeated Balthasar, “why, that is 
the big wool man. I fancy he is known of even in Voe. Are 
you connected with him?” 

“Well, rather. Job Else & Company consist of one person, 
Job himself. His name, however, really is — do you think you 
could guess it?” 

Balthasar shook his head, saying: 

“ Not the slightest idea in the world. All I know of him is 
— he is a wool king.” 

“ Couldn’t you guess it ? ” asked Kneebone, turning to Janoca. 

“I think I could. Job Else & Company is — Abel Boden! ” 

“What! No! Never! Why, Else is a millionaire, man! 
Come, I say, Kneebone; you said you were going to brag, 
but ” 

“You draw the line at ‘there’s millions in it,’ eh? But you 
know, a man may be a millionaire in the States four times over, 
and yet be no millionaire in England; that is the difference 
between dollar and pound. All I say is, I have money enough 
for me and my lad; and as for Job Else & Company, if I’m not 
that respectable firm, I don’t know who is.” 

“Why, really, Mr. Kneebone,” laughed Janoca— “I beg par- 
don Mr. Boden — no — Messrs. Job Else & Company, you will 
force me to revive my never quite extinct faith in fairies. You 
are Prince Fortunatus himself.” 


JOB ELSE & CO. 


221 


“Yes; I won’t say but what I have been strangely lucky — I 
believe in luck, though many people don’t. But one is never 
quite satisfied; there is always something lacking,” said Knee- 
bone, with a sigh. 

“You are thinking of your brother?” 

“ No, Miss Phythian, not at all. But now you remind me of 
him — don’t you think he makes a good stiff thorn in the flesh? 
Think how he has treated my lad — my lad who risked his life 
to save his daughter! ” 

“Yes; it is very cruel and sad. But you know, of course, 
that my brother is going to marry your niece, Ruth. And 
when the miller has really become one of the Phythian family, 
as it were, I am going to take him in hand. In our family we 
do not allow feuds like that.” 

“Unless they happen to be — cousins — and are christened 
Philip — and they are heirs-presumptive — and we exceedingly 
detest them,” supplemented Balthasar, laconically. 

Before Janoca could reply, Kneebone interposed with: 

“ It would be a very great honor for us Bodens to marry into 
the Phythian family, and nothing could give me greater pleas- 
ure than to see it brought about. But, in this case, I’m might- 
ily afraid we are counting our chickens before they are hatched. ” 

“ But they are really en Well, no, perhaps not formally 

engaged, but they understand each other. And the miller has 
consented. Is it not so, brother?” 

“Yes; I think Penelope and I understand each other. But 
Messrs. Else & Company is right. I find there is a prior claim 
upon her affections — a claim that cannot very well be ignored 
now. ” 

“ O brother, brother, you ought to have been a — a clergy- 
man! Give me the text, please. I do not want the sermon yet.” 

“ I beg to refer you to Messrs. Else & Company. It is a 
highly respectable and well-informed firm.” 

“The fact of the matter is, Miss Phythian, the lassie loves 
my lad, Abel. Happen — I give it as a mere suggestion — hap- 
pen she didn’t know her heart so well before the flood as since. 
I don’t know how things will turn out yet — the miller is shap- 
ing badly, to my thinking; but if it could come about, maybe 
it would be the bridge over the great gulf.” 

“ Yes, yes, I can see that ; but oh, I am so sorry ! so sorry ! ” 
said Janoca, softly. She sat for some time lost in thought, 
then she said to her brother, almost pathetically: “Have I got 
to go through it all again for you? ” 

“No, Jano, I wouldn’t, if I were you. I think I am entitled 
to a rest. It’s your innings now, you know, ” answered Balthasar. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


UNCLE AND NEPHEW 

It was getting on toward the end of May, nearly a month 
after the flood, when, one fine summers evening, Ruth being 
out of doors somewhere, the miller went into the painfully gen- 
teel parlor, for about the first time since the day when Bal- 
thasar had turned the key on him. He had no special reason for 
entering that particular room on that particular evening, or for 
doing what he proceeded to do; in all of which he was but the 
blind and passive tool and medium of that grotesque, impish, 
and malicious element of mischief that lurks in life disguised 
as chance and accident, and delights in reducing our carefully 
imposed forms to pi. 

If it be true, as hath been said, that attached to Jupiter’s 
great toe by a light chain are many minor gods of exceeding 
great nimbleness and subtility, known among the immortal 
big-wigs as second causes, and among mortals as accidents 
or events — then it is probable that the miller was being 
unconsciously led by the ear by one of these inferior deities of 
sly, ironic, and pitiless turn of mind. In which case, the 
sub-celestial gentleman, despite his connection with Jupiter’s 
great toe, would have got no more than his deserts had he been 
treated as a common, every-day English ghost, and, by the aid 
of bell, book, and candle, been laid forever in the deepest 
trout-hole the Scarthin could boast. 

The miller stood in the middle of the room, and looked 
about him with a frowning, interrogatory glance, as though 
mentally demanding of each piece of furniture what was its 
business there. He looked restless, ill-tempered, and un- 
happy; ready to pick a quarrel with the most polished of cen- 
tre-tables, or with the softest and easiest-natured arm-chair in 
the parish. Nor was this a transient mood or passing wave of 
anger; on the contrary, it was twelve days old, and its 
strength was still waxing. A consciousness of its existence 
had projected itself all over Voe, and folk found themselves 
gazing in the direction of the tree-embosomed mill, with the 
same odd sensation they would have experienced had they 


UNCLE AND NEPHEW 


223 


known there was a rumbling volcano in the pines, that might 
any moment shoot out its red tongue. 

It has never been recorded that any one ever sympathized 
with a volcano, active or passive. And somehow the miller 
was keenly conscious that his friends and neighbors had unani- 
mously voted him a volcano. The opinion stung him less than 
its falsity. Had it only been true, he might have tasted the 
honey-sweetness of revenge, by blackening the sky with smoke 
and reddening earth with fire. Even in a blast-furnace, there 
were certain grim potentialities; but in a blacksmith’s forge, 
only the childish imagination could discover the elements of 
the terrific. 

Whatever his friends and neighbors might think of him, the 
miller’s private and personal knowledge hurried him and har- 
ried him down the steep and bottomless slopes that lay be- 
tween the burning cone of the mountain and the wind-blown fire 
of the village forge. Yet fire is fire, whether handled by God 
Vulcan or by Jack Wragg; and for setting a town in flames a 
lucifer-match is practically as good as the best sample of 
forked lightning. The miller certainly was on fire. His heart 
burned within him, and so did his spleen, and so did his brains, 
and so did his nether lip; indeed it seemed as if every sepa- 
rate piece of his anatomy, physical and spiritual, had caught 
fire. 

The blow, sudden, sharp, unexpected, which had struck out 
the latent flame within him, was Balthasar Phythian’s retreat 
from his supposed engagement to marry Ruth Boden. It had 
come upon him like a bolt from a clear sky; he had listened to 
Balthasar’s statements, his explanations, his apologies, his pro- 
testations, his regrets, like one a-dreaming. He had said 
nothing but Yes and No; he had even accompanied Balthasar 
to the head of the lane, and — incredible as it now seemed to 
him — he had actually shaken hands with him at parting! It 
was like the deadly fascination of the serpent. Balthasar him- 
self had noticed it, thanked his stars for it, profited by it, in- 
wardly prayed that it might last until he had left the mill half 
a mile behind him; and all the time had odd and jumbled im- 
ages in his mind’s eye of Belshazzar, in a darkened banquet- 
ing hall, staring at some phosphorescent writing on the wall ; of 
Zacharias in the temple, looking round to see what had become 
of his power of speech; of Balaam descending from his talking 
ass, and standing off from him, with mixed feelings of disgust 
andad miration. 

The following day had found the miller at Carbel Chase all 
on fire. Balthasar, foreseeing the visit, had gone to Yewdle 


224 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


Brig, and left it all to unsuspecting Jano. Janoca received the 
miller, and did her best to mollify him, but all to no purpose. 
He grew mad with rage and fury, threatened the direst ven- 
geance upon Balthasar, and began to let loose strange oaths. 
Then Janoca assumed her stateliest manner, her most freezing 
hauteur , and her bitterest and most contemptuous irony. It was 
majesty against vulgarity, a hedge-stick against a glittering 
rapier. She beat him down, she disarmed him, she cowed him, 
she made him feel ridiculous, contemptible, depraved, and she 
finally dismissed him as she would an insolent beggar. 

But once out of her presence, the fire within him broke out 
again with redoubled fury. He would bring an action for 
breach of promise, and claim ten thousand pounds damages, 
and all the world should know how “ Gentleman ” Phythian sup- 
ported his designation. He told Ruth what he was going to do 
in her name, and on her behalf. Then, lo and behold! an- 
other strange and monstrous and utterly unexpected thing came 
to pass — Ruth absolutely refused to allow him to do anything 
of the kind in her name, and said, with the air of a tragedy 
queen, that wild horses should not draw her to appear in court 
in any such suit! As she thus spoke, to the miller’s thinking 
she was a second Janoca Phythian, only on a smaller scale. 
There were the same coolness, the same exquisite self-posses- 
sion, the same pride, and an awful hint of the same scorn. 
.Whereat the miller’s joints were loosened, and his courage be- 
gan to ooze, and he concluded it was better to avoid defeat by 
shunning conflict. And so the days had worn away, and, feel- 
ing helpless and baffled, his rage had fallen back upon itself, 
and was burning white-hot within him. 

Presently as he stood in the middle of the parlor, his glance 
fell upon an old ivory-mounted work-box, that had formerly 
belonged to his wife while yet she was Alice Duckmanton. He 
opened the box, and, after some little fumbling in the bottom, 
brought out a small key which belonged to an antique escri- 
toire, of mahogany, that stood in one corner of the room. In 
this curious combination of writing-desk, pigeon-holes, drawers, 
and secret compartments, the miller had always stored his pri- 
vate papers and valuable documents, together with various small 
articles on which he had put a price of affection. 

No one was supposed to know where the key was kept save 
the miller himself, although, as a matter of fact, it was within 
his knowledge that Ruth knew, and also Violet Chalk, and he 
would not have been surprised to learn that Jane, the compara- 
tively new importation, was as wise as the rest. At the same 
time, he had every reason to believe that the knowledge was 


UNCLE AND NEPHEW 


225 


abused by no one; his will in the matter was clearly known, 
and was scrupulously respected. Only once or twice in her life 
had Ruth enjoyed the fearful delight of peeping into the 
drawers of what had always been to her a mysterious piece of 
furniture. 

The miller drew a chair in front of the escritoire, and having 
opened it out, sat down and began to go through the contents of 
drawer after drawer, solely on account of the old memories and 
distinctly pleasant sensations that were awakened by a bit of 
faded writing, a silk lace, a small piece of old-time jewelry, 
or a lock of golden hair. These trifles were not carefully 
folded up, labelled, and collected together in a separate com- 
partment, as they would have been in the hands of a sentiment- 
alist; they were scattered here and there, as though they had 
been left where they had been first dropped, intermixed with 
documents impervious to sentiment. None of these serious and 
legal papers claimed any attention from the miller: with a 
beautiful instinct — as true as it was useless — he made as though 
they were not, and devoted himself to the knick-knacks that 
were touched with passion and sentiment. 

He came at length to a little cedar box, tied with white rib- 
bon; he held it in his hand for a moment or two, and then put 
it back into the drawer, as though he had concluded not to 
open it. But all at once he changed his mind, took out ’the 
box again, and opened it. It contained only eight or nine 
portraits, two or three being antiques painted on ivory, a 
couple of silhouettes, and the remainder photographs. Sud- 
denly the miller uttered an exclamatioy, and rose from his seat 
and went out of the room, calling “ Ruth, Ruth! ” In a little 
while the miller returned, accompanied by Ruth, who looked 
pale and nervous. 

“ Somebody’s been in there and taken a photograph. Do 
you know anything of it?” said the miller angrily, pointing to 
the open escritoire. 

“What one is it, father?” inquired Ruth, the color rushing 
to her face. 

“What does it matter to you whose it is? It’s a photograph 
of — of a man, and it belonged to your mother. Speak ! do you 
know anything of it?” cried the miller almost fiercely. 

Ruth looked at the desk, wondering what evil destiny had 
led her father there that evening; not twice a year did he go 
near it. Then she looked at her father and felt frightened; 
he looked so angry and she knew she had done wrong. He 
laid his hand upon her shoulder roughly, saying: 

“ Do you hear; do you know anything of it? Yes or no?” 

15 


226 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“Yes, father, I do. It is quite safe. Oh, do forgive me! 
I never disobeyed you before, father.” 

“Where is it?” thundered the miller. 

“I lent it to — to Miss Phythian.” 

“What’s that? What’s that you say, you hussy?” cried the 
miller, hoarse with fury. 

“O father, please don’t! She said she would take every 
care of it, and let me have it back safely. I will go to- 
morrow and get it. I’m so sorry — oh, I’m so sorry! faltered 
Ruth. 

But the miller seized her by both shoulders, and, glaring at 
her like a wild beast, exclaimed: 

“ Good God ! if you were only a boy I’d half kill you ! Why 
did you give it to her?” 

“ She wanted to know if we had a likeness of your bro ” 

The miller thrust his hand before Ruth’s mouth, crying: 

“Stop it! How did you know whose likeness it was?” 

“ I saw it some years ago, and knew mother’s writing on the 
back, and somehow I guessed it was — his, though I wasn’t 
quite sure.” 

“And what did that — that Jezebel want with it?” 

“I don’t know, father.” 

“You lie, you miserable traitoress! you lie!” 

“Father, I do not lie. I have told you the truth; I don’t 
know what she wanted with it.” 

“You’re a brazen-faced thief and liar, I tell you,” roared the 
miller with a fearful oath, purple with fury. 

At this, Ruth the trembling, the timid, the penitent, the 
conscience-stricken, recoiled with a shudder, and cried: “Oh, 
oh, oh! ” as though she were stabbed. Then, like magic, there 
came over her a wondrous change; she drew herself up to her 
full height, and on her face came a strange look of dignified 
womanhood, and her eyes grew fearless and curiously bright. 
She said not a word, but looked at her father steadily. Eye to 
eye they wrestled for mastery. Daughter against father, and 
father against daughter, it was will to will — a strife of souls — 
the darkest strife in the universe. And the new-born woman 
won. 

Suddenly her father dropped his eyes — beaten. Not a word 
was said; the one knew he had lost, as the other knew she had 
won. The miller raised his arm and pointed Ruth silently to 
the door. And Ruth obeyed, and went up to her chamber and 
shut to the door, and there and then laid aside the panoply of 
her womanhood, and subsided into the poor, unhappy child, 
motherless and miserable, whose heart was well-nigh broken. 


UNCLE AND NEPHEW 


227 


An hour later, Jane came into the parlor with a lighted lamp 
in her hand, and said: 

“ If you please, sir, Mr. Boden the blacksmith wants to see 
you.” 

The miller looked up quickly, gave an odd laugh, and an- 
swered : 

“Well, show Mr. Boden the blacksmith in.” 

As Abel entered the room, the miller rose and remained 
standing. 

“Good-evening, uncle,” said Abel, coming forward and ex- 
tending his hand. 

But the miller kept his hand in his trousers-pocket, and, 
with a brisk nod, said: 

“ Good-evening — blacksmith.” 

Abel had counted on just such a reception, and yet the real 
thing somewhat staggered him. He toyed nervously with his 
exquisite mustache, and seemed at a loss what to say next, 
while the miller stood like a frowning rock in front of him. 
Said Abel, at length: 

“May I have a few minutes’ talk with you?” 

“You may, or I shouldn’t have let you in here.” 

“It’s about your daughter, Ruth.” 

“And what have you to do with my daughter?” 

“ I saved her life, as far as that goes, not so long ago. But 
I don’t ” 

“You have come for a reward, eh? Well, how much do you 
want ? Will a five-pound note satisfy you ? ” 

“ No, it won’t. I risked my life to save hers, and I value 
my life at more than five pounds. When I look for a money 
payment, I’ll have my money’s worth, or nothing at all. But 
I’m not here on any such errand.” 

“ Then what the deuce do you lug in my girl’s name for? 
Come — the fewer words we have together and the quicker we 
part, the better.” 

“ I want to ask your consent to our coming together.” 

“What’s that? Just say it over again, please.” 

“ I love her, uncle, with all my heart, and I think she cares 
for me a bit, and I ” 

“ I see. You want to court my girl Ruth. You think Gen- 
tleman Phythian’s leavings about good enough for yourself. 
And the poor jilted mammet cares for the blacksmith now, does 
she?” 

“Uncle, let bygones be bygones. I will make her a good 
husband, and I am your own brother’s child.” 

“You damned idiot! Marry you? I’d rather see her dead 


228 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


first. Get out of my sight, or I’ll — I’ll — damn you, I’ll kick 
you out!” And the miller, with face convulsed with fury, 
and his eyes ablaze, advanced toward Abel with clenched fist. 

Abel, utterly taken by surprise at this fearful outburst of pas- 
sion, fell back a step or two; then he halted, and his handsome, 
dark-skinned face became flushed. There was an intense 
quiver in his voice as he said, with a great effort of self-repres- 
sion: 

“You are my father’s brother and Ruth’s father, and so — 
well, if you were any other man, I would ram your miserable 
oaths down your throat. I never injured you, never abused you 
behind your back. I am your own nephew. I am an honest 
man. I am as good a workman as you will find within a day’s 
walk of Yoe. I am fit to be the husband of your daughter any 
day. And if she is of my way of thinking I will marry her 
yet, or my name isn’t Abel Boden.” And he marched out of 
the house with the dignified swagger of a professional man of 
war. He was the true son of his father — the mild man fierce 
in wrath. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


KNEEBONE ON FIGHTING 

Considering the amount of wrong-doing that goes on, there 
is every reason to believe that the world would be a very mis- 
erable place but for the existence and good offices of con- 
science. It is notorious, for instance, that the criminal classes 
are indebted to the soothing voice of an easy-going conscience 
for their immunity from the griping pangs of self-reproach. 
Again, it was the soft anodyne of a clear conscience, void of 
offence toward God and man, that preserved the priestly inquis- 
itor from a horrid attack of nightmare, after he had seen his 
victim burnt alive at the stake, or heard his muscles snap on 
the rack. It pleases us to think that when any of our acquaint- 
ance forget to act on the square, or fall into the quagmires of 
meanness, spitefulness, uncharitableness, or of any other hered- 
itary failing, though they brave it in public, in private they 
are honeycombed, as it were, with the gnawings of the worm 
of conscience. Though, for ourselves, conscience has been our 
steady friend and backer, and being well posted in the ins and 
outs of sundry critical passages in our life, it never failed to 
give us an approving pat on the back, however much outsiders, 
misinformed, jealous, and one-sided, may have censured us. 
“Gentlemen, let us clear our minds of cant,” which is a great 
saying, and applies to divers subjects other than that of boun- 
ties on sugar. 

The fact seems to be that conscience only rarely backs down 
on a man. And among the awful possibilities of life, such as 
murder, madness, leprosy, and hydrophobia, is to be reckoned 
this — that some day or other our conscience might actually 
back down upon us. This catastrophic event had happened to 
the miller. For the first time in his life he felt the gnawing 
of the famous metaphysical worm. It wrought in him a sincere 
and profound sorrow — sorrow that the little beast gnawed so 
viciously. And he solemnly vowed that he would turn over a 
new leaf, and — give the little beast something to gnaw for. 
He was very miserable. For in the popular legend of con- 
science so much is gospel — to wit, that when conscience does 


230 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


once bite, it eats away the secret and precious root of a man’s 
happiness. 

The miller felt that his conduct toward young Abel was not 
exactly generous, or magnanimous, or noble; and it made him 
positively unhappy to think that he could not persuade himself 
that it was. In this predicament the saying occurred to him 
that what kills cures. The complexion of the idea was emi- 
nently favorable to him, as its application was obvious: if he 
held on his course, by and by his debilitated conscience would 
regain strength and tone, and he would be able to congratulate 
himself on having nobly done his duty, through the medium of 
revenge and hate. So the miller held on his course. 

It took him several days to decide what he should say to 
Ruth, for at bottom he was afraid to bring about a collision 
between her regard for Abel and her obedience to her father. 
And this, not simply because he felt sure that she would follow 
her heart’s argument whithersoever it blew, but also because 
he loved her with a fierce and jealous love. She was the only 
living thing he did love; and in her strong love and precious 
sympathy he found the only reed that was not rotten, upon 
which he could securely lean. And she had never failed him, 
though he had habitually withheld from her every token of ten- 
derness, and every hint of the almost pathetic greediness with 
which he fed upon her affection. Ruth herself had no sense of 
being loved. For love she was a-hungered and athirst for 
years, until what time Abel had fed her with the divine food. 
On her duty to her father she put no mean construction. Nor 
was she the girl to hold cheaply her woman’s love for the man 
who had first fed her heart with the bread of angels. 

In his perplexity the miller sent for Violet Chalk, with whom 
he had a long talk about Ruth and Abel. Violet Chalk set 
forth that any woman worthy of the name was apt to find the 
voice of the charmer sweet, under like circumstances; she had 
even some grounds for thinking that a previous liking had ri- 
pened into a warm affection, since the events on the day of the 
spate: for her part, she saw plainly the finger of Providence in 
it, and a very strong and beautiful finger it was; and if she 
were Miss Ruth, she would follow it through thick and thin, 
and none the less willingly because it led straight into the arms 
of a fine young husband such as Abel Boden would make. 
Whereupon the miller waxed exceeding wroth, and began to 
use “ language ” at which Mistress Violet Chalk bounced out of 
his presence, declaring in a stage whisper, as she tossed her 
disdainful, head, that she knew somebody whom no finger of 
Providence should ever have got her to marry, no, not if he had 


K.NEEBONE ON FIGHTING 


231 


been dropped out of the clouds to her on a lonely desert island! 
At length the miller called Ruth into the parlor one evening, 
and told her very briefly of Abel’s visit. 

“What did you say to him, father?” inquired Ruth, coloring, 
but curiously self-possessed. 

“Said? I told him I would rather see you dead first.” 

The color fled from the girl’s face. 

“ But, father ” 

“Stop it. The less said the soonest mended. You can go 
now.” And not another word was said. 

It struck the miller that he had managed the thing very 
neatly. If Ruth was prepared to obey him, he had said all that 
was necessary to let her know his mind on the subject ; and if, 
on the other hand, she was not prepared to obey him, he had 
spoken no words that might choke him in the event of his hav- 
ing, at a future time, to eat them. 

Some time previous, and soon after the talk which he had 
heard when a prisoner in the parlor, the miller had given Am 
Ende a secret commission to execute. So far, there had been 
no necessity for him to inquire as to its execution, and he had 
been quite willing to let the subject lie, seeing that the Bal- 
thasar affair seemed to be running so smoothly. Now, how- 
ever, his mind reverted to Am Ende with a strong throb of 
dark pleasure. Am Ende was only a tool, but a tool is a very 
valuable instrument when a piece of work has to be done, pro- 
vided it be of the right kind. The miller asked no better 
tool for the work in hand than the one he had. Said the miller, 
one afternoon when they were alone in the mill: 

“ I told you some time ago to keep your eye on somebody. 
Happen, as usual, you’ve forgotten all about it.” 

“ Oh, no, I hanna. I’ve bin agate o’ telling you a few words 
more nor once. And then I thought as happen it ’ud be time 
enow to talk when you gev the word,” answered Am Ende, with 
the air of a man accustomed to act only upon principles at once 
distinct and lofty. 

“Well, what have you learned?” 

“ Not o’ermuch, but summat very well worth knowing. And 
that is, that the fellow that hopes to outwit a certain gentleman 
who bears a name he dunno deserve, had better begin a-cutting 
his wisdom-teeth three months afore he’s born.” 

“Indeed! that’s all, is it? I knew before to-day that it 
takes no great wit to outrun a fool,” snorted the miller. 

“ Which is a nice smart cap enow, only it dunno fit this 
skull,” retorted Am Ende, tapping his own headpiece. “He 
hanna outwitted me yet. But— well, young A. B.— not to speak 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


232 

no names — he’s considered not only the ant, but the fox as well 
and the trout and every blessed thing of guile in natur. They 
are sweet on one another, dead sure, miller.” 

“ Do you mean the young folk or rats, idiot ? ” roared the 
miller. 

“Oh, not the rats,” laughed Am Ende, who proceeded to 
furnish his listener with an account of several meetings between 
Ruth and Abel. 

The miller sat on a sack of flour, silent and savage, until 
Am Ende had talked himself dry, when he said: 

“ I see you have not been asleep, nor letting the grass grow 
under your feet, and I’ll remember me of the same when we 
settle up. Let me have a report every week. Keep your eye 
on the man. Let nothing slip you. Gad! if we could only 
catch him tripping! ” 

A short, fierce laugh broke from him as he spoke. Am Ende 
also laughed a similar laugh, short and fierce. It was the 
laughter of deadly hate; and nothing on earth is stranger and 
more singular, nothing more peculiarly human and yet charac- 
teristically satanic, than the laughter of hate. The growling 
thunder of an earthquake is seraphic melody in 'Comparison. 

Am Ende obeyed his instructions, and kept his eye on Abel. 
There was no mistaking Abel’s mood, and all Voe knew from 
his bearing that something had occurred to put him on his met- 
tle. Self-contained he was as ever, separate and silent; but 
the strange and fascinating air of melancholy that had always 
surrounded and marked him out from his fellows, appeared to 
have given place to an air of challenge and defiance. Even 
his bodily carriage underwent a similar change; he walked 
more erect, trod the earth with a firmer step, held his chin up, 
and kept his eyes off the ground. The old folk, thinking of 
his father, said one to another: “He’s th’ son of his fader. 
That’s owd Abel to th’ life when he was angert. ” 

Kneebone noted the change, sighed to himself, but said noth - 
ing. Not so Nathan Wass. He kept silence for some days, 
till he could bear it no longer. Then he said: 

“Lad, what ails thee? Thou art nursing wrath, I’m a-think- 
ing.” 

“ Happen I am!” • 

“What’s the trouble, lad? Speak it out.” 

“ And why ? What is the use of going to a dry cow for milk ? ” 
said Abel, with bitterness in his tone. 

Nathan looked hard at him ere he said: 

“ Thou art wounded, thou art sore, or thou wouldstna say 
that o’ me. When hast thou found me dry to thy thirst ? Lad, 


KNEEBONE ON FIGHTING 


233 


I'd give thee my blood and gladly! ” And the old man's voice 
quivered with emotion. 

Abel went up to him and put his hand on his shoulder, say- 
ing: 

“Forgive me, Nathan. You have been a father to me, and 
a mother, and I should be an ungrateful dog if I didn’t act like 
a son to you.” 

“ Thou hast been a good lad to me, Abel — better nor most 
sons. It cut me to the quick to hear thee say I was dry to thy 
thirst. I know thy meaning well enow. And by the same 
token, I judge there’s trouble atwixt thee and thy lassie.” 

Then in a few words Abel told him of his shameful interview 
with the miller. A grim smile overspread the old man’s face, 
and his eyes kindled with a dangerous light. 

“ Hast toud the smith, Kneebone, of it ? ” he asked. 

“ No, not yet.” 

“Well, tell him, lad. Art going to give up the lass?” 

Abel gave a short laugh that spoke volumes. 

“ That’s right, lad. At the start I was agen the thing, but 
I’m none so sure I’m agen it now. If she’ll stick to thee, just 
thee stick to her, and let the miller go hang. But have a chat 
with thy — thy master. I’ve a nation good opinion of him, lad. 
And now it’s war, drat him, if I was a-dying I’d say, stick to 
the lassie, lad, stick to the lassie, and let the miller go hang, 
amen ! ” 

Following Nathan’s advice, Abel took an opportunity, the 
next day, of telling Kneebone of his trouble; and if he was sur- 
prised at Nathan’s change of front, he was yet more surprised 
when Kneebone said: 

“ Happen the old man was right, after all. There’s blood, 
mighty bad blood, dividing you two. I guess it’s about time 
you two young ones parted for good, isn’t it?” 

Abel ran his hands quickly through his hair, a beautiful 
mass of closely lying ringlets; then for some moments he toyed 
with his long mustache, and then he uttered a short, incredu- 
lous laugh. 

“You don’t look at in that light, I see,” said Kneebone, 
“ and yet I wish you would. In fact, Abel, I’ve got a plan in 
my head which I think would work very well just now. I’m 
about tired of Voe already — nay, there is nothing to stare at, 
man. When a fellow has been a rolling stone for as many 
years as I have, he finds it hard to settle down in one place 
long. Now I want to go to South America, but I won’t go 
alone. Let us go together. I’ll pay you handsomely, lad.” 

“What to do?’’ 


234 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“ Do? Why, nothing but keep me company and, and — catch 
insects and all sorts of vermin.” 

Abel burst out laughing. 

“ Nay, there’s nothing to laugh at, unless it’s the glorious 
fun of the thing. You know I’ve money enough; and think, 
lad, with your liking for nasty insects and things, what a splen- 
did chance you’d have of studying Nature! All kinds of won- 
derful birds, and beetles, and moths, and serpents, and every kind 
of curious entomological horror. You shall have books, and pre- 
serving-cases, and a troop of cunning Indians to hunt for you, 
and — why, Lord bless me! you would come back and find your- 
self famous! It is better than hanging round here, an obscure 
village blacksmith, to be cursed and sworn at by a skunk of a 
miller. Don’t you think so, lad?” 

Abel did think so. Every nerve in his sensitive body quiv- 
ered with excitement. The thrilling proposal appealed to his 
secret discontent, to his secret ambition, to his hunger for knowl- 
edge of life, to his inborn passion for the pursuits of a natural- 
ist. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and his whole nature 
sprang forward to embrace it. But to embrace it meant to de- 
sert Ruth, his own sweet-hearted Ruth. Could he do that ? His 
smooth, handsome, dark-skinned face wore a look of anguish 
while the silent conflict raged within him. It did not last 
long, but while it lasted it was spiritual torture. He suddenly 
heaved a great sigh that sounded almost like a sob. Then he 
answered, quietly: 

“You are very kind, sir, but I can’t do it. I’ll do as Nathan 
Wass said. I will stick to the lassie, and let the miller and 
South America go hang, amen ! ” 

At this Kneebone sighed aloud, and said: 

“ In that case, there is nothing more to be said. But I am 
very sorry. Are you quite sure she will stick to you?” 

“I’ve no fear on that score,” answered Abel, smiling. 

“I don’t want to flatter you, but to my way of thinking you 
deserve the love of a right down good girl.” 

“And that I have got.” 

“Well, I h6pe so. Is she anything like her mother?” asked 
Kneebone, in a tone that struck Abel as peculiar. 

“I couldn’t say. Her mother died when I was a mere nip- 
per. Why do you ask ? ” 

“Ha! why indeed! I don’t know — unless it is that I have 
been told some time or other that years ago your own father 
loved her mother. Was it true, do you know ? ” 

“ I believe he did. It was over Ruth’s mother that the 
miller and my poor father fell out.” 


KNEEBONE ON FIGHTING 235 

“Ha! that was a sorry day’s work. I wonder if she was 
worth quarrelling over? I’d give something to know.*’ 

“ Could any woman be worth such a quarrel ? ” said Abel, sor- 
rowfully, thinking only of his lost father. 

“ Maybe not — if she wasn’t christened Ruth. Happen I’m a 
fool just where I flatter myself I am wise. But, lad, it’s an 
old belief with me that there are a few and only a few things 
in the world really worth quarrelling about. It doesn’t matter 
just now what I think those few things are. But one of them 
is this — the love of a good woman. That is worth a fight any 
day. At least, if it is not, then there is nothing worth fighting 
for, and suffering for, under the sun. Do you know I have 
never once put eyes on your lassie, except on that dreadful 
night on the bridge? You must contrive to let me see her 
soon. I want to know her.” 

“ She will only be too glad to know you. She often says she 
wishes you and the miller could have got on together. Shall 
you go to the Well-Dressing at Yewdle Brig?” 

“ Why, certainly. How are you getting on with your design ? 
Shall you get first prize?” 

“I’ll try for it, anyway. I began work on it some time ago. 
But what I was going to say was, Ruth will be there, and you 
may get to know each other. She said last night she was go- 
ing.” 

“ Oh, then you do manage to meet, the miller notwithstand- 
ing?” 

“ Yes. We met at Violet Chalk’s.” 

“And Mr. Silas Chalk?” 

“Was not at home, you may be sure.” 

“ Do you know where that excellent gentleman, Mr. Am 
Ende, was?” 

“ No.” 

“Well, I happen to know that he was lying on his belly in a 
hollow on the uplands, watching Chalk’s cottage. It will pay 
you to keep your weather eye open, Abel.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


A PIECE OF ARTISTRY 

It was Holy Thursday, and Yewdle Brig was in festive at- 
tire in honor of its ancient annual custom of Well-Dressing. 
Old-time paganism, whether of the classic kind or native to 
these islands, was not well posted in theology, and was some- 
what eccentric in many of its practices. But it was, neverthe- 
less, fond of the open, lived face to face with nature, was favor- 
able to a number of ideas that have since been declared poeti- 
cal, and looked kindly upon sundry pieces of conduct that were 
as quaint and beautiful and becoming as could well be desired. 
If in nothing else, paganism was good and true and beautiful 
in its floral festivals, in the perpetuation of which many good 
Christians of to-day attest their long descent from pagan an- 
cestors. It was so in Yewdle Brig, where the streets were 
thronged with people dressed in their best Sunday clothes, who 
had come from far and near to celebrate the Well-Dressing. 

The official part, so to speak, of the affair was simple and 
appropriate. After a brief service in the gray old church, the 
vicar, attended by his two curates and followed by choristers 
and crowd, marched from well to well, at each of which a hymn 
was sung and a prayer was read. After that, the secretly 
elected judges made their awards, which were signalized by 
rosettes of different colors, and then the spectators had the sat- 
isfaction of criticising the judicial critics. It was not always 
easy to detect the mysterious principle on which the three 
prizes were awarded; and it was no unusual thing for the pub- 
lic boldly to reverse the decision of the judges, and declare 
aloud that an unsuccessful competitor was the legitimate win- 
ner of the first prize. 

There were only five wells to be dressed at Yewdle Brig, and 
hence there were but five dressers. Of these the best known 
and most popular was the young blacksmith of Voe, Abel 
Boden. For four years out of the six in which he had been a 
competitor he had carried off a prize; in two instances he had 
gained the first prize. In his marvellously skilful manipulation 
of flowers Abel had done no little to justify his beautiful Ital- 


A PIECE OF ARTISTRY 


237 


ian face that was worthy a born artist. This year he had con- 
ceived a bold and singular design. Oddly enough, the idea 
first occurred to him when the spate was hurrying him and Ruth 
forward to what appeared to be certain destruction. It came 
to him like a flash of inspiration, and he had worked it out with 
infinite patience and skill. Even his method of composition 
became more exalted and free and artistic. He still had his 
wooden frame, and his moistened clay mixed with salt, but he 
altogether discarded the paper pattern and the wooden skewer. 
His spirit felt buoyant, masterful, creative, and eager. Had 
he fallen upon the words: 

“ Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry, 

For large white plumes are dancing in mine eyes,” 

he would have felt the innermost core of their meaning, and 
would have laughed within himself, being glad that a poet had 
been born expressly to provide for his fluttering spirit the 
bright, strong, mounting wings of poetry. For who when he 
is strong is not an egoist ? * 

The principal well was in the market-place, and had been 
assigned to a resident competitor, while Abel had been allotted 
the most distant well of all. This was one known as the Oaken 
Well, which took its name from a huge hale oak-tree, several 
centuries old, that grew above it. It was on the roadside, 
away from the houses, and was flanked by hawthorn hedge and 
high grassy bank. Here Abel found himself very early on the 
morning of what was destined to be for him an eventful day. 
As usual, Nathan Wasshad driven him over in his light broom- 
wagon, in which were carefully packed in boxes the different 
parts of Abel’s design. These were unloaded as daintily as if 
they had been cases of costly china; after which the two men 
went to work to set up poles, to which they fastened a rick- 
cloth, that formed a circular barrier round the well, and con- 
cealed Abel and his work from the untimely gaze of the public. 

Some people like to see the seamy side of a thing, such as 
the wind-cave in the bellows, or the matrix of the golden eggs 
of the goose; by the same token they pay a heavy price for 
their ill-conditioned curiosity. As, however, we have no de- 
sire to go to market with such buyers, now that Abel is hard at 
work behind the rick-cloth, we can afford to leave him there 
undisturbed for a solid six hours. 

The mid-day chimes were playing, as Christopher Kneebone 
sauntered into the crowded market-place at Yewdle Brig. Pres- 
ently he found himself quite near to a small group of ladies 
and gentlemen, who were chatting and laughing merrily. The 


238 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


group included a baronet, a justice of the peace, a colonel of 
yeomanry, Squire Saxton, and “Gentleman” Phythian. From 
the men Kneebone glanced at the ladies, and, somehow, he had 
a distinct and peculiar sensation as he recognized among them 
Janoca herself. 

It was not Kneebone’s manner to avoid meeting any one, yet 
for a moment he felt like turning aside; but he held on his 
way, and something that was not a thousand leagues removed 
from pride straightened his back somewhat, and slightly ele- 
vated his chin. As far as personal appearance went, he looked 
quite as well as any one of the local magnates in front of him, 
while his clothes, thanks to good Yankee tailoring, fitted him 
as most of theirs did not fit them. Still he was only the black- 
smith of Voe; he was not one of them; while, as his glance 
rested upon the stately figure of Janoca, he was conscious of 
wishing that he had been one of them. Elsewhere, in half a 
dozen great cities of the world, as Job Else & Company he 
could hold his head high, among men whose looks were proud, 
and whose names were potent in the magic circles of finance. 
But here in quaint Yewdle Brig, a veritable Sleepy Hollow, the 
weight of early associations lay upon him like shackles of iron. 
He knew well enough that he had only to gild himself and 
straightway he would become one of the gilded clique. But 
feelings are tyrannous things, and he felt himself to be neither 
Christopher Kneebone nor Job Else & Company, but simply 
Abel Boden, head shepherd to the squire there, who just now 
glanced at him, and did not even seem to recognize his own vil- 
lage blacksmith ! 

Would Janoca’s sight also fail her? The squire was well 
known to be short-sighted, and Kneebone knew him too well 
to misjudge him. But Janoca Phythian had the sight of a 
hawk, and if — well, if heaven was kind, he would be able to 
pass without her seeing him. Involuntarily he drew from his 
waistcoat-pocket a brand-new toothpick, and put it between his 
teeth. Thus armed, he sauntered easily on, his glance no 
longer on the group, but thrown straight forward. He looked 
the very embodiment of easy, unaffected nonchalance, yet his 
heart was throbbing with unwonted energy, and his spirit was 
playing a passionate part in the swift and subtile comedy of 
life. 

He was on a line with the group now. His elbow actually 
touched the squire’s back as he passed him. But he was really 
past them at last, and he was wondering if Janoca Phythian 
was that moment looking at his back, and if she would recog- 
nize him— among a million backs he would have known hers, 


A PIECE OF ARTISTRY 


2 39 


he thought — when suddenly he heard — ye gods, what a thrill 
went through him as he heard the voice and caught the words: 

“ Mr. Kneebone ! Mr. Kneebone ! ” 

For a second he stood rooted, then he took a step forward, 
and then with a quiet smile on his bronzed face he turned 
quickly round, and saw in a flash two things. First, he saw 
that every eye in the group was upon him; for which, however, 
in his present mood, he cared not a red cent. Next, away from 
the group by half his own distance, he saw Janoca Phythian, 
her hand outstretched, and on her face one of her rare smiles. 
Seeing which, the world for Kneebone passed clean out of exist- 
ence, and in those dark, lustrous eyes he saw the heavens 
opened ! 

“ I am so glad we have met, Mr. Kneebone. Quite an event 
has befallen me, do you know? I have actually caught on the 
wing, as it were, a new idea for our — your Memorial Hall.” 

“Indeed! I am delighted to hear it. I am sure your — our 
Memorial Hall will be so much the gainer by it.” 

Janoca missed none of the subtility of his speech; she gave 
him a quick, interrogatory glance, and then another of those 
all-conquering smiles, which made the level-headed man in 
front of her feel almost dizzy. 

“You will not laugh at my idea — promise me?” 

“I promise faithfully,” answered Kneebone, laughing. 

“Well, it is nothing else than a — a nursery, a public nursery,” 
said Janoca, and the faintest of blushes tinged her face. 

Kneebone looked at her, and his face was preternaturally 
grave. 

“ I dare not laugh, Miss Phythian, but I should awfully like 
to,” he said, solemnly. 

“No, I will do the laughing,” she replied, as she broke out 
in a merry laugh. Then she said: “You do not care for the 
idea much, I fear ? ” 

“ I don’t know about that. The truth is, I don’t quite grasp 
it. Will you tell me something more about it, please?” 

“ Oh, yes. A good many of the poor women have young chil- 
dren, which they often find it very difficult to leave when they 
wish to go out to work. Sometimes the mothers are compelled 
to stay at home on that account. More frequently the children 
are left to take care of themselves as best they can. I have 
known a child of eighteen months to be tied in its chair, day 
after day, in front of a made-up fire, given its bottle and rattle, 
and left there alone while its mother went out to do a day’s 
washing.” 

“ May I laugh ? ” gasped Kneebone. 


240 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


Janoca looked surprised, but answered sweetly: 

“Certainly.” 

Kneebone laughed, not loud, but deep and gloriously. Then, 
seeing a shadow on the radiant face, he said, penitently: 

“ I know it is very wrong of me, wicked and heartless, but I 
couldn’t help it. There is something irresistibly comical in 
that picture of the little urchin tied up in front of the fire, help- 
ing himself to a lonely meal. But I think I see your point 
now. You would hire a nurse to look after them, and bring 
all the dotlings to the Hall, and have clean sweet rooms for 
them, and pretty cots to sleep in, and a cart-load of toys, and 
— and — well, it’s a capital idea, as pretty as it is wise and 
tender. Two or three more such ideas, and our Memorial Hall 
will be as full of blessed use as it shall be of beauty.” 

“You agree to it, then?” said Janoca, her sweet face lit up 
with pleasure. 

“ I thank you sincerely for giving me the opportunity of do- 
ing so. It is worth building a hall if only to carry out such 
an excellent idea. The little chap with the bot ” 

“Why, my dear sir, who would have thought of seeing you 
in Yewdle Brig! ” 

Kneebone turned half round, and looked the speaker in the 
face: it was the baronet of the group. Their hands met, but 
Kneebone’s was unusually limp, while his face was an absolute 
blank. 

“ Don’t you remember me? I am Sir Gervase Ruby.” 

Kneebone shook his head. 

“ I was introduced to you three years ago last May in Del- 
monico’s in New York, by my friend, the Honorable Ebenezer 
Washington Barker, United States Senator. We met again at 
the Union, you remember.” 

“They seem pleasant memories; I wish I could say I shared 
them. They know both how to cook and how to charge at Del- 
monico’s, I believe. Haven’t you mistaken me for somebody 
else, some more fortunate individual ? ” 

Sir Gervase Ruby looked a little put out. He looked keenly 
at Kneebone as he said: “ Possibly I am mistaken, sir. Are 
you not Mr. Job Else, of Monte Video and San Francisco?” 

At this Kneebone laughed. 

“ If you want to know who I am, ask this lady. I am Chris- 
topher Kneebone, the blacksmith of Voe.” 

“ Goodness gracious! what a stupid blunder! Of course, now 
I look at you, I see — I might have known. I’m very sorry, my 
good man — how very absurd! Not a bit alike! ” 

And the baronet drew back and rejoined the group, and re- 


A PIECE OF ARTISTRY 


2 4 I 


lated the ludicrous incident of his mistaking the blacksmith of 
Voe for the great American wool-king, Job Else. As was nat- 
ural, it furnished no little amusement for the group, and none 
laughed heartier, we may be sure, than Balthasar Phythian, 
who remarked: 

“I know the man. He will see the fun as well as we do. 
Jano seems to have some business with him, and I think I will 
go and speak with him.” 

Bowing to the ladies, he left the group and came up to Ja- 
noca and Kneebone. 

“ And so you would not know Sir Gervase, eh ? ” he said, as 
he shook hands with Kneebone. 

“I was just telling Mr. Kneebone, brother, that it really is 
not right of him to persist in playing the blacksmith to those 
who know he is not one,” put in Janoca. 

“ But Sir Gervase Ruby is not one of those. You heard him 
say, as he went away, that we were not a bit alike. Besides, 
when I want to be known as Job Else I will carry the name. 
No Sir Gervase Ruby shall interfere with my plans,” remarked 
Kneebone, with a decision of tone and purpose that Janoca 
could not do other than admire. She was prepared to like a 
man who knew his own mind and had a will of his own. 

Chatting, they moved on together through the crowd of sight- 
seers, and presently, as luck would have it, they encountered 
Abel and Ruth. Cried Kneebone: 

“Hallo, lad! we are looking for your well. Where is it?” 

“It isn’t far off. Have you seen the others?” 

“ No.” 

“ Then suppose we look at them first ? I haven’t seen them 
myself yet.” 

This was assented to, and in the pairing that took place Ja- 
noca monopolized Abel, to whom she showed herself as a most 
brilliant, fascinating, and sympathetic woman. She might 
have been devoted to the primitive art of floral decoration, and 
an eager student of entomology, so easily and intelligently, 
and withal with such a gracious diffidence, in front of his su- 
perior knowledge, did she discuss these subjects. Thus she 
took captive the son of his father. 

A short distance behind the Phythians and Abel, came Knee- 
bone and Ruth. Very sweet and dainty the girl looked, dressed 
all in light blue, which was the color of the first prize; and so 
of course it soon would be, if it was not already, Abel’s color. 
She knew that she was with a true friend of her lover, and she 
had a very natural desire to find favor in his sight. Under 
like circumstances, a girl of far less native sweetness and 
16 


242 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


strength of character than she would have been equal to the 
task of winning the good opinion of her companion ; and Ruth 
very speedily found her way into the already swept and gar- 
nished house of Kneebone’s affection. 

Spite of etiquette and formality and conventional reserve, 
how quickly we can tell that any one likes us — almost as quick 
as we can detect dislike! Meeting the steady glance of his soft 
gray eyes, Ruth knew in a twinkling that she had found a 
new friend, and straightway there was formed within her a root 
of affection that was almost filial. And Kneebone, scanning 
her face for some trace of her mother, with an eagerness that 
was pathetic, failed utterly to find so much as a hint of poor, 
pretty, piquant, coquettish Alice Duckmanton; but he found 
instead the mouth, and nose, and eyes, and eyebrows of his 
own dear dead mother of saintliest memory. Ah me! ah me! 
these bits of roundabout heredity, coming suddenly upon us in 
unexpected quarters, how they shake us to the centre! 

The first well they reached bore a yellow rosette, which was 
the third prize. At this Abel looked a little surprised. 

“I didn’t know the judges had been round yet,” he remarked. 

“Well, lad, if your favor isn’t a blue one, I know somebody 
as will be disappointed,” said Kneebone, glancing slyly at Ruth. 

They passed on to another well. This was one of the un- 
successful ones, and had gained no prize, but the dresser, being 
of a practical turn of mind, was contented to appeal to the gen- 
erosity of his numerous admirers and had naively planted a tin 
mug on a stone in front of his workmanship, and was kept 
fairly busy pocketing the pence that were dropped into it. 

The next well was decorated with a red rosette, the second 
prize. 

“You see, Mr. Boden, they have kept the blue for you, after 
all,” said Janoca. 

“It lies between us two now, that is certain,” replied Abel, 
and his face was very grave. He was saying to himself, What 
if, after all, he had missed the prize? The thought stung him. 
He had always gone in to win, which meant a certain amount 
of enthusiasm and excitement on his part. But to-day the 
thought of failure affected him as it had never done before. 
He could not bring himself to contemplate it with calmness, 
for unless his design had been successful, its boldness would 
but render it ridiculous, and perhaps, too, in her eyes. And 
yet no, never that. Nothing that he had done would she ever 
think less than exquisitely beautiful, though all Yewdle Brig 
and the big world outside admired it with their tongues in their 
cheeks. Nevertheless, if he could only have had five minutes 


A PIECE OF ARTISTRY 


243 


alone at his well, he would quickly have settled the matter, in 
much the same way as Donatello settled the price of his bronze 
statue with the haggling merchant. 

The well in the market-place came next. There was a crowd 
round it; and by this time something of Abel’s excitement had 
touched all his companions. Slowly and in a compact group 
they worked their way through the throng, until at last they 
stood in front of the well. They gave one glance, and then a 
simultaneous “ Oh ! ” broke from each member of the group, ex- 
cept Abel. He stood with his eyes riveted on — the blue rosette. 

He had failed. Janoca laid her hand softly on his arm and 
said gently : 

“ Come, my friend, we came to see your work. We all know 
it is better than this.” 

“ Not the least doubt about that, Boden. On all such occa- 
sions the judges are a set of solemn, ignorant donkeys, and 
never do the right thing except by accident,” put in Balthasar, 
who felt sorry that justice required him to curb his indignation 
until he had actually beheld Abel’s work. 

Said Kneebone, in a tone that brought a hundred eyes upon 
him : 

“When a giant strives with dwarfs, as a betting man I should 
back the dwarfs.” 

“What’s that, mister?” shouted a rough fellow, a lead- 
miner, in the crowd. 

“A parable, I should call it, which means that small things 
are best done by small people!” 

“ Thee durstna say as how this isna th’ best bit o’ work in 
Yewdle Brig to-day?” shouted the miner, in a half-threatening 
tone full of insolence. 

Kneebone’s soft gray eyes had been full of unwonted fire for 
some few minutes, and now they suddenly opened wide. 

“ I say it isn’t worth the second prize, let alone the first. I 
say there is work in Yewdle Brig to-day that is worth this 
double over,” he answered, his angry eyes fixed on the miner. 

“All right, mister, and it’s not me as ’ill say thou’rt wrong. 
I’m o’ that way o’ thinkin’ mesen. But dash it if I didna 
think I were the only mon in Yewdle Brig to-day wi’ eyes in 
my head. Good Lord! if it’s a bit o’ fine work that’s wanted, 
it’s to be found at th’ Oaken Well, or my name isna Jim Bun- 
ting! ” And with this the miner dived into the crowd and was 
lost to view, before Kneebone could get near enough to give 
him a shake of the hand. 

Abel laughed a little scornfully, and said: “After that, I 
think we may as well go and have a look at the Oaken Well,” 


244 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


On their way thither, Ruth murmured in her lover’s ear: 

“Darling, why are you so put out about it? You never 
seemed to mind much which way it went before to-day.” 

“ Nor did I, not a straw compared with what I mind to-day. 
Ruth, there has been foul play going on somewhere. My work, 
though I say it, is kings and queens beside the best work here.” 

“My love, do you think I doubt it?” 

“O lassie, lassie, I’m very sore about it, for your sweet 
sake. You won’t be vexed at it when you see it, will you? 
Happen I’ve been too bold.” 

If she could only have put her arms round his neck and 
kissed him! She did manage to get his hand in hers just for a 
moment, unobserved, and she gave him a look that rendered 
words superfluous. 

And now their nerves began to tingle, for in front of them was 
the Oaken Well, about which hundreds of people were gathered, 
evidently in a state of excitement, judging from the hubbub of 
voices and the vehement gesticulations. Kneebone stepped 
forward and put his arm through Abel’s, while Balthasar fell 
behind with Janoca and Ruth. Just as they touched the edge 
of the crowd, above the noise was heard the loud, defiant voice 
of Jim Bunting, the lead-miner, shouting: 

“This is the work of a giant, an’ t’others be dwarfs, and yet 
he hanna got a prize. Damned if I think that’s fair play! ” 

A great roar of applause greeted this sentiment. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE UNJUST JUDGE 

Said Kneebone, laughing: “That is plagiarism with a ven- 
geance. But I forgive him, the scamp." Then he turned, and 
taking Ruth by the arm, said to the Phythians: 

“ We must try and get in front somehow.” 

“Very well; though I hate a crowd like this. Jano, I shall 
look to you for protection,” said Balthasar, with comical grav- 
ity. 

Just then Kneebone looked round to address a remark to 
Abel, but the latter had vanished and was nowhere to be seen. 

“Happen he is better left alone a bit,” said Kneebone, in a 
sympathetic tone, to Ruth. 

Then they began the difficult task of wedging themselves 
through the dense mass of excited humanity. It was slow 
work; but patience and tact and good-nature are excellent 
lubricants, and will ease one’s way through worse difficulties 
than an English holiday crowd. 

It is recorded of a certain handsome young fellow that, run- 
ning one day against a barrow-woman in the street, and turn- 
ing round to mollify her anger, she said: “Where are you driv- 
ing to, you great hulking good-for-nothing — beautiful fellow; 
God bless you! ” Now Kneebone was neither young nor hand- 
some, nevertheless he was able with impunity to poke backs, 
dig ribs, and tread on toes, for his genial humor and pleasant 
tongue disarmed resentment and appeased the surliest. And at 
last they stood pressed against the stout cords that kept the 
crowd back from the well. 

And this is what they saw: above the well, which was en- 
tirely hidden from sight, was a gracefully shaped alcove, con- 
taining a glimpse of a rocky cell, dotted with lichen and fes- 
tooned with ferns, with a bit of wild lovely garden beyond, 
and overhead was the tenderest of blue skies flecked with soft 
white clouds. Immediately in front of the grotto was a rough 
earth-colored cross, beside which knelt in life-size the Ma- 
donna, with clasped hands and bowed head. She was habited 
in a skirt of creamy white, over which was a gorgeous violet 
robe blazoned with suns and moons and stars; a halo was about 


246 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


her head, and her knees were deep in wild flowers. There were 
butterflies here and there, and one — an exquisite creation of 
black and yellow and purple and red — had settled on the hem 
of the Madonna’s robe. But the climax, the soul and centre 
of the whole piece, was the Madonna’s face, and lo ! — itivas the 
face of Ruth. There was no mistaking it. It was lifelike. 
The whole scene might have been a tableau vivant of Ruth her- 
self. Along the front of the alcove, in Old English letters, 
were the words 

IRealna Wr^lnum. 

The design was indeed bold; it was almost startling in its 
boldness. But then the execution was superb and incompar- 
able. At a distance of twenty feet it seemed well-nigh incredi- 
ble that that wonderful piece of artistry should be composed 
entirely of flowers. It looked like a piece of sculpture richly 
painted, and enshrined in mosaic work of beautiful stones, cun- 
ningly inlaid, and blended here and there with real flowers and 
ferns to deceive the eye. The very wings of the flower-built 
butterfly on the Madonna’s robe seemed to quiver as if alive. 
On closer inspection, however, the malachite resolved itself 
into bright green twigs of the yew-tree, and the lapis-lazuli 
grew into the crisp flowers of the wild hyacinth, and the rich 
marbles and porphyry were recognized as double daisies, crim- 
son and pink and white. Berries, rice, lichens, furze-blos- 
soms, king-cups, laburnums, and rhubarb flowers, together with 
a multitude of wild growths of every color and tint — all were 
pressed into the service of art, and made by magical skill to 
support the illusion of costly jewels, and precious stones, and 
rare fabrics, and the rarer and richer play of light and shade. 

The like had never been seen in Yewdle Brig. Yewdle Brig was 
accustomed to one stereotyped style of well-dressing, which was 
repeated with small variations from year to year. That style was 
admirably illustrated by the well in the market-place, which had 
secured the first prize. Here the design was nothing but a 
set of formal arabesques, faultlessly regular and meaningless, 
combined with sundry symbols, such as doves, vases, crosses, 
and the like, together with passages of Scripture, appropriate 
or otherwise. Obviously, this kind of floral design and com- 
position was separated toto coelo from Abel’s. The one was art- 
istry, the other handicraft. 

Said Janoca, after she had gazed in silence for some time: 
“ What a glorious piece of work! I should not have thought 
it possible. And what a superb compliment! My dear Ruth, 
jt is fit for a duchess.” 


the unjust judge 


247 


u A duchess? It is fit for a saint. And, Jano, with due 
modesty, I opine that a saint is one degree higher than a duch- 
ess,” observed Balthasar. 

As for Ruth, she said not a word; and by the same token she 
showed she was a wise girl. For what word could she have 
spoken that would have been at all adequate to the occasion? 
Had she been alone with her Abel, peradventure she would 
have compassed some word or act which the young fellow would 
have counted adequate. We make this observation in the light 
of the knowledge of what actually took place the first time 
the girl found herself alone with her lover. It was some- 
thing very womanly, and passsionate, and sweet, and pretty, 
and delicious, and — and — well, the young man felt that it was 
adequate. 

And Kneebone, like Ruth, was silent, ominously silent, and 
a frown was upon his face. Janoca watched him intently for a 
while; then she said to him in a low, sweet voice: 

“ Mr. Kneebone, I think I should like to get away from these 
people. My brother is taking our Ruth, and I am afraid you 
will have to take me.” 

Kneebone looked on her noble face, now tinged with a soft 
blush, and his frown fled in an instant. 

“ No greater pleasure. I wish I could only take you — * — ” 
He paused on the very edge of a precipice. “ For good and 
all,” was what he was going to say; and suppose he had actu- 
ally said it! The idea made him tingle all over. He added, 
“a quicker way out of the crowd.” 

Pitiably lame! miserably tame! A bounding stag at the 
start was his sentence, and at the finish no better than a wretched 
sheep halt with foot-rot. 

Yet why did Janoca turn aside, unless it was to conceal the 
quick, deep blush that dyed her face? And why the man-slay- 
ing blush? Did she hear that idiomatic phrase “for good and 
all,” as it fell unspoken from his tongue to his heart? Who 
can tell ? Ofttimes it seemeth a man’s flesh and bones are but 
as transparent glass to a woman’s glance, so that she seeth the 
secret thought in his brain, and the coiled and hidden love in 
his heart, while as yet he is but dimly aware of their existence. 
Boot and saddle, and mount quickly as the man may, the wo- 
man will yet have scoured over every highway and byway in the 
wide wild domain of his nature, ere he has ridden the length 
of his park palings. 

On the edge of the crowd Kneebone inquired of Janoca if she 
was returning home soon. 

“ I think so,” she answered. “ Are you ? ” 


248 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“ Not just yet. They have got it into their heads, and rightly 
too, I’m thinking, that there has not been fair play. I am go- 
ing to stay and see what comes of it. Will you see Ruth back 
safely?” 

“ Oh, yes, we will look after her, you may depend. But — I 

think you had better come with us.” 

There was a distinct note of entreaty in her tone, for she was 
really beginning to feel alarmed at the tumult around her. 
But Kneebone, though he caught the tone, shook his head, and 
answered : 

“ If it is only ignorance, well and good; but if there is some- 
thing worse at bottom, there will be a row, and I shall be in it 
too. But it will only be a tempest in a teacup, you know,” he 
added, seeing his companion’s face grow very serious. 

A little later the Phythians and Ruth moved away, and Knee- 
bone with a frown on his face re-entered the crowd. It had got; 
wind that something was up at the Oaken Well, which instantly 
became the centre of attraction for scores that had failed to 
find any special interest in it before. But it would be safe to 
say that, for every such score, there were a hundred indignant 
admirers of Abel’s workmanship. 

The road was blocked, and the excitement began to grow in- 
tense; it showed itself in occasional cheers, bursts of fierce 
shouting, loud denunciations of the judges, and strange unin- 
telligible murmurs, like the growl of some half-awakened mon- 
ster. The situation was critical, and nothing was needed but 
an idea and a leader to render it dangerous. Suddenly the 
stentorian voice of Jim Bunting, the lead-miner, was heard 
high above the din, calling out: 

“Who be the judges? Let ’em come and tell us th’ rayson 
why. Happen they’re on’y foo’s and not knaves. Where be 
they ? ” 

For a moment a silence that was startling fell upon the mul- 
titude, and then a hoarse roar of applause rent the air. Just 
then, right in the centre of the crowd, a lively little scrimmage 
seemed to be taking place on its own account. In another mo- 
ment shouts were heard of : 

“ Here’s one of them.” “A judge! a judge!” “Hoist him 
up! hoist him up!” “Order, order! silence for the judge!” 

The crowd swayed and parted, and there, on the high bank 
beside the well, held by the miner and several other self-con- 
stituted jailers, stood a short, sturdy, jolly-faced fellow of 
about fifty, puffing and panting, but perfectly self-possessed 
and smiling like a popular hero. He looked so plucky and 
game that when somebody cried out: “Three cheers for the 


THE UNJUST JUDGE 249 

bantam! ” they were given with gusto. He bowed and smiled, 
and took off his dinted hat, and said: 

“ I suppose you want to know why this very beautiful piece 
didn’t get a prize ? Well, I will tell you. It was simply be- 
cause there were three judges instead of one. If there had 
only been one judge, and that one your humble servant, Mr. 
Abel Boden of Voe would have been declared the winner of the 
first prize by a walk-over.” 

Long and loud was the cheering that greeted this declara- 
tion, during which the speaker put on his bat and seemed will- 
ing to descend from his exalted station. But the miner’s hold 
did not relax, and when the noise had subsided, he said: 

“You hanna towd us why t’other two was agen him.” 

“No, I know that, and I am not going to, either.” 

“ Binna ye? An’ why not, mister?” asked the miner, in an 
ironical tone. 

“ For a very good reason — because I don’t know. Yet, hang 
it! I won’t lie about it. I reckon I do know; but what then? 
Their reason wasn’t mine, as I have told you. And if you 
want to know their reasons, go and ask them. They are old 
enough, I trow, to answer for themselves.” 

“That sounds well enow, mister. Happen, though, we 
dunna know ’em. What might their names be?” 

The jolly-faced man put on his considering-cap at this for 
some little time. 

“Give us their names, man!” cried a voice from the crowd, 
which sounded very like Kneebone’s. 

“Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t. The one is Mr. Reuben 
Sayles, grocer in Cow Lane, and the other is Mr. Luke Boden, 
the miller at Voe. You all know him. He is the uncle of the 
clever young fellow who did this.” And the speaker pointed 
dramatically to Abel’s work. 

Now it happened that throughout the surrounding district 
and for miles beyond, the favorite brand of flour was a partic- 
ular kind that came from the mill at Voe and was known as 
Boden’s Beauty; and the only tradesman in Yewdle Brig that 
could obtain the coveted commodity was Mr. Reuben Sayles, 
grocer in Cow Lane. The monopoly was profitable, and the 
excluded tradesmen were correspondingly sore. It was, prop- 
erly enough, a grocer’s assistant who now shouted out : “ Sayles’ 
vote meant Boden’s Beauty!” The crowd understood the al- 
lusion perfectly, and roared with delight at the sally. The 
miner, not to be behindhand in the pleasant art of reading mo- 
tives, cried out: 

“It’s as plain as a pike-staff now. Who hasna heard o’ th’ 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


2So 

grudge Miller Boden has agen his nevvy? An* for why? Be- 
cause he had a quarrel wi’ th’ lad’s fader o’er twenty years sen. 
Says I — shame on him!” (Tumultuous applause.) “As for 
the grocer, it ’ud do him no great harm to dust him o’er pretty 
thick wi’ some o’ his Boden’s Beauty. He’s on’y a too’ o’ th’ 
miller’s, though, th’ poor, miserable critter! Now I’d like to 
know what right th’ miller’s got to come here and play his 
game o’ spite and malice in public? We none want any of his 
quarrel here, and if you be o’ my way o’ thinkin’, we’ll have 
none of it. He’s an*Unjust Judge, an’ we’ll have none o’ him 
at Yewdle Brig. Just look at this here — thing o’ beauty. Not 
wuth a prize! Did ’em so-cawed judges tak’ us to be their 
own brothers, the hid-yuts! There, I’m done; I want a drink. 
All I’ve got to say is — here be my sixpence toward givingsum- 
mat handsome to the young man as was clever enow, ay, and 
kind enow, to do for us this — this here thing o’ beauty! ” With 
this, he pulled forth a sixpence, and, as a mark of his confi- 
dence in the integrity of his prisoner, deposited it in the hat 
of the jolly-faced man. 

There was something peculiarly English in this practical and 
common-sense action of the miner. The crowd was in the right 
frame of mind for anything in the shape of follow my leader, 
from demolishing the work of the successful well-dressers to 
attacking the shop of Reuben Sayles. A Continental Jim Bunt- 
ing would instinctively have seized the tempting opportunity, 
and in the name of some fine principle would have headed the 
mob and executed a neat little riot. But being only a plain 
Englishman, a level-headed Peakshire lad, with a fair sense of 
common justice and a strong love of flowers and well-dressings, 
having no restless egotism to curb, and no political dreams to 
realize, and no fine principles to vindicate, he quietly wound 
up with a general subscription instead of a riot. Tame, stupid, 
and inglorious. Out, oui , messieurs , mat's — c'est a V Anglaise. 

The people, unconscious of an anti-climax, cheered loudly, 
pulled out their sixpences, shillings, and half-crowns, collected 
thirty pounds in half the number of minutes, and deputed the 
jolly-faced judge and the lead-miner to seek out Abel Boden at 
Voe and present the money in suitable terms. 

Then they groaned for the miller and grocer, and cheered 
like mad for Abel Boden and the lead-miner and the jolly- 
faced judge, after which they sang “Rule Britannia” and 
“God save the Queen,” and with a comfortable sense of having 
done their duty, they began rapidly to disperse. 

So far everything was lawful and orderly; but the imp of mis- 
rule, which can sniff a crowd farther than a vulture can sight a 


THE UNJUST JUDGE 


2 5 r 


dead camel, had not had any innings, and was feeling sore 
thereat, and must needs seek an opportunity of organizing an 
impromptu game on his own behoof. And as bad luck would 
have it, it found what it was seeking, in this wise. After the 
awards had been made, the miller retired to the Royal George 
Inn, and, in company with the too complaisant Reuben Sayles, 
grocer of Cow Lane and vendor of Boden’s Beauty, partook of 
a glass of cold gin and water. He did this with some show of 
dignity, being conscious that, as a man of substance, he was 
conferring a mark of favor upon the grocer by drinking with 
him in public. Then he mounted his gig and drove off, bound 
for a village eight miles distant. 

On the return journey, and when about a mile and a half out 
of Yewdle Brig, who should suddenly emerge from an old dis- 
used engine-house, a short distance from the roadside, but Mr. 
Reuben Sayles. The miller pulled up and the grocer advanced, 
pale and agitated. 

“Well, what now? You look frightened,” said the miller. 

“ I’ve come to warn you, sir. Don’t go nigh Yewdle Brig. 
It isn’t safe, it isn’t safe,” cried the grocer, his teeth seeming 
to chatter with terror. 

“And why not?” inquired the miller. 

“ The people are up against the awards. There’s a fine crowd 
down at the Oaken Well; I heard them cheering and hooting 
right up to the shop, sir. When I got away they were getting 
ready to sack the place, and they threatened to do to us both the 
Lord knows what. They would murder us, if they catched us. 
Don’t go nigh the place, Mr. Boden, if you value your life! ” 

At this the miller’s face flushed a purple red, and with an 
oath he said: 

“ They would probably hang you for an arrant coward, and 
happen it would serve you right. But they’ll leave me alone, 
or I’ll teach ’em to. Go on, Spanker.” 

He gathered up the reins as he spoke, and drove on, leaving 
the monopolist of Boden’s Beauty trembling by the hedge-side. 
Whatever else he might be, the filler was no coward. Enter- 
ing the town, he drove down Cow Cane, half expecting to find 
Sayles’ shop had been wrecked. On the contrary, however, 
the shop was all right, and there was not a trace of the crowd. 
At the foot of the lane, the road to the left carried him out of 
the town and Voeward, while the road to the right would bring 
him into the market-place and thence to the Oaken Well. 
Mentally, and mentally only, he halted for a moment at the 
turn, and then with a muttered “Curse them, I’ll drive over 
’em if they don’t clear out! ” he took the turn to the right. 


THE BLACKSMITH OB' YOE 


252 

By this time the crowd at the well had dispersed, and things 
were settling down to a merry holiday level. The market- 
place was pretty full of pleasure-seekers, and, under the most 
favorable circumstances, a vehicle would have passed through 
but slowly and with difficulty; under existing circumstances, a 
prudent man would have chosen the back streets for driving. 
But the miller was on his mettle, and must needs drive through 
the very thick of the crowd. Several groups, one after the 
other, dissipated at his approach; for Spanker was a young 
horse, strong and full of fire, and came on with pricked ears 
and that peculiar dancing gait which suggests mischief. 

At last he found himself in front of a more dense crowd of 
people surrounding a performing bear. “Way, there!" he 
shouted, and drove straight on. The crowd did not move, but 
Spanker did. In another moment the air was rent with the 
screams of women and children, and the angry voices of men, 
as Spanker danced right in among them and began to rear. By 
good luck, nobody was injured; the crowd scattered in a trice, 
and the miller drove on, recking little for the angry cries that 
assailed him. Oddly enough, no one had seemed to recognize 
him so far; but he had not proceeded more than twenty yards, 
when suddenly a child’s voice sang out : “ There goes th’ miller, 
th’ Unjust Judge! Boo! boo! boo-o! Unjust Judge! ” 

It was like putting a match to a powder-train, so swiftly, 
fiercely, universally was the cry taken up. The miller heard, 
and smiled grimly, and shook the reins, saying: “Get along 
out of this, Spanker.” The horse sprang forward and then 
stopped short. There were men at his head holding him, and 
others swarming about the shafts, and others about the wheels, 
and in all directions people were running toward him, and 
fierce curses were in the air. With a fearful oath the miller 
brought his whip down on Spanker, who sprang right off the 
ground, and then began to kick out his rage. 

“ Cut the reins! ” “ Pull off the harness!” “ Out with the 
miller!” “To the pond with the Unjust Judge!” “Duck 
him, duck him! ” cried a hundred voices. 

The miller heard the cries, and saw the seething crowd, and 
a deadly fear and sickness of spirit seized him. And no won- 
der, for his chances of life were very few and small just then. 
Three rough fellows sprang into the gig to pull him out, and 
the miller fought them for his life. It was a fearful sight, and 
the crowd, not yet maddened enough to be brutal, watched 
the struggle with silent and panting interest, half horrified and 
half delighted. 

The miller was overpowered; they were dragging him down, 


THE UNJUST JUDGE 


253 


when a man forced his way through the crowd, leaped on to the 
shafts, and seizing the nearest of the miller’s assailants, threw 
him to the ground. An angry shout came from the on-lookers, 
and half a dozen rowdies, who were spoiling for a fight, made 
for the miller’s champion, to pull him down. But he jumped 
nimbly into the vehicle, and picking up the miller’s stout 
walking-stick, which lay upon the bottom, he shouted: “Keep 
back there! I’ll brain the first man of you who comes nigh, 
you ” 

Down with a swing came the stick, but the fellow on the 
wheel dropped just in time to save his head from being cracked. 
Snap went the stick in two, broken on the tire. Quick as light- 
ning the man turned, and graspingone of the two men who were 
merrily employed in choking the miller to death, he flung him 
neck and crop on to the swarm below. The same instant the 
miller realized that somebody was befriending him; and put- 
ting out his strength, he pitched the last of the three assailants 
over the tail-board. The gig was cleared of the enemy. 

Back to back stood the miller and his champion, with 
clinched fists and flaming eyes, ready to sell their lives dearly. 
The miller was sorely battered and torn and blood-stained, 
but he had fight in him plainly enough; and so had his cham- 
pion, who looked beautiful in his anger, and might have served 
an old-world sculptor for a model of a war-god. Thus they 
stood holding their enemies at bay, when Kneebone, who had 
just joined the crowd, forced his way to the front. 

“ My God ! ” he gasped, horror-struck, and his face went white. 

“Pitch ’em out! Over with ’em! Turn the trap over! 
Like miller, like man! Turn ’em over!’’ 

There was a yell and an ugly rush, but Kneebone was first. 
One foot on the step and another on the shaft, his hand glided 
to his hip and then it went high up in the air; there was a sud- 
den gleam of steel, and then a loud report that frightened the 
crowd back into its senses. The rushers drew back quickly 
and there was a sudden silence. Said Kneebone, in his jaunt- 
iest manner: 

“Look here, my children! this pretty toy is a revolver. It 
has six chambers, and five of them are loaded. I don’t know 
how many cowards there are here, but I’m thinking there are more 
than there ought to be in a crowd of Englishmen. But if there 
are five fools among you — here’s their cure.’’ He tapped the 
revolver significantly. “Who is a fool ? I will tell you, my 
children. He who maketh a rush for this trap is a fool; and, 
by heaven! I’ll physic the first five of you, as sure as I am a 
living man! ’’ With this, he got inside and took the reins in 


254 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


his left hand. “You, there, holding this horse!” he shouted, 
“ it’s very kind of you, but I’d rather you didn’t. Just give 
him his head, please.” 

They all fell back save one, a big burly fellow, who clung to 
Spanker’s bridle, and loudly said he would be — well, con- 
demned — if he let go. 

“All right, my lad, don’t. I won’t kill you for it, but I’ll 
tell you what I’m going to do. I am going to count three, and 
if your hand isn’t off the rein by the time I’ve done I’ll smash 
it with a bullet. You will find I am a man of my word. Now 
— one — two — th ” 

The fellow could not stand it any longer; he loosed the rein 
and ran for his life! The crowd roared with laughter, but 
Kneebone looked very grave, for he had made up his mind, and 
two seconds later he would have put a bullet through the man’s 
hand and have taken the consequences. 

“Now, my children, the next time we meet I hope you will 
be sorry for having been so naughty. Good-day to you all.” 

He shook the reins and drove off at a good rattling pace, 
while the crowd looked at each other, and each thought his 
neighbor had in some way or other been making a fool of him- 
self. In the gig the three men thus strangely thrown together 
sat in silence. 

Half-way to Voe, Kneebone said: “I guess I’ll get out and 
walk the rest.” 

Said Abel: “So will I.” They got out. 

Said the miller, gloomily: ‘‘I’ve had a bit of a grudge 
against you, blacksmith, but it’s gone now. I’m much obliged 
to you.” Then he looked at Abel, scratched his nether lip, 
that began to burn of a sudden, and said: 

“ I don’t deny you stood up for me, but if it hadn’t been for 
your confounded work there would have been none of this 
trouble to-day. I wish I might never put eyes on you again! ” 
And he drove on. 


CHAPTER XXX 


THE PLATEAU MINE 

Kneebone stood and watched the miller, until the gig turned 
a distant bend in the road and was hidden from sight. Then 
he heaved a deep sigh, and said: 

“ Well, and what do you think of him ? He is a grateful coon, 
isn’t he! ” 

“I’m thinking I shall never win him over,” answered Abel, 
sadly. 

“ There is an old saying about heaping coals of fire on one’s 
head. Seems to me it would take a coal-mine to make any 
effect in that quarter; and coals are dear nowadays, and are 
not to be wasted on worthless heads. That South American 
offer is still open, Abel.” 

The young man made no answer, only shook his head and 
presently sighed. 

“Do you know,” said Kneebone, after a while, “I begin to 
think he hasn’t got a better nature to wrong.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Abel, whose thoughts were in 
— South America. 

“The miller, to be sure. Awhile back I’d got a pretty 
theory that he was a sort of good man struggling with moral 
adversity. I pictured him doing violence to his better nature, 
and only wanting a good heft of circumstance to enable him to 
throw off his load of deviltry. I have known men like that. I 
have known men whose very longing to be good has only 
plunged them deeper into badness. It is a strange thing to 
say, I know: it seems like a contradiction in terms, and may be 
one for all I know or care. I know this much — that the world 
holds some very odd souls, as well as bodies. And if you try 
to interpret them by common rules you waste your pains. I 
thought the miller was one of these, maybe. And perhaps he 
is, and then, may the good Lord forgive me, but he is beyond 
me! I fear me, though, he hasn’t got a better nature to wrong. 
Anyway, he is not to be bent. I wonder could he be broken ? 
Broken! the scamp, broken!” And Kneebone mouthed the 
word broken, as though he found the idea sweet, 


256 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


And from this day of the well-dressing, Christopher Knee- 
bone began to familiarize himself with the thought of an active 
opposition to the miller, in Abel’s behalf. He had hoped — ah 
me! how he had hoped! But his very first night in Voe, when 
the miller came to him after the sale, had played havoc with a 
dozen sweet and generous dreams concerning his brother — 
dreams, any one of which might reasonably have become actual 
fact, and, as such, would have made the home-coming of the 
much-travelled and versatile man an event fit to be commem- 
orated in song. But in this later day, fit occasions of song are 
scarce as fit singers; and Kneebone’s possible epic has assumed 
the shape of an indifferent piece of prose. Poor Kneebone! 
Poor Proseman ! 

It was some weeks after the Yewdle Brig affair before Knee- 
bone made any move in the direction of antagonism with the 
miller. It came about in a rather singular manner. One fine 
evening Kneebone thought he would stroll as far as the little 
tufa cottage on the edge of the wood, and spend an hour with 
old Nathan Wass. On his way thither he came within sight of 
an old overgrown path that ran in zigzag fashion up a steep 
hillside. Something like a shiver went through him as he sud- 
denly remembered that it ran past a certain old lead-mine that 
might very well have been his tomb. Ere the shiver had spent 
itself he had turned aside and was climbing the hill. He 
reached the place, a plateau under the brow of the hill, sat 
down on a large stone, and looked about him. 

The sun was dipping behind a distant hill-range, and a great 
sea of glory, the concentrated beauty of the universe, stretched 
from the purple-black shores of earth far away toward the land 
where there is no night. A seraph familiar with the scenery 
of his own clime might have found a new sensation and an un- 
known joy in gazing westward at such a time. Yet such a 
thing is familiarity, and such a thing is human egotism, that 
the man never once consciously raised his eyes to behold the 
heavenly splendor, but kept them fixed on the heap of rough 
stones that covered the mouth of the mine. And after all, what 
solar splendor and mystery could compare with the dread fas- 
cination of a cairn of gray stones that, for one living man, 
marked your violent grave? Nothing had changed. Not a 
stone seemed to have moved or mellowed. And for all these 
long, long years, in the mind of Luke, these stones had hidden 
the murdered body of his brother. 

Kneebone wondered what his feelings had been; if he ever 
had the nightmare. It was an uncomfortable thought that he, 
Kneebone, had a brother who actually for twenty years had 


THE PLATEAU MINE 


257 


thought himself an undiscovered murderer, and yet had neither 
been killed with remorse nor yet had killed himself, nor even 
gone mad, but had just lived on, and kept his liver all right, 
and grown fat. As a moral curiosity he was perhaps a brother 
to be proud of, if it were not for one’s prejudices, thought 
Kneebone. Then he fell to wondering if Luke ever feared dis- 
covery, and if he ever came to visit the spot — a speculation on 
which the miller himself could have thrown a lot of light. 
And not sunlight, nor fantastic moonlight, nor mysterious star- 
light, but a ghastly phosphorescent light, such as might flash 
from the black mouth of some desolate volcano, and form the 
medium through which lost spirits show their faces to each 
other, when they lust for sympathy and are capable only of 
scorn. 

In a little while Kneebone heard some one coming down the 
hill; the land jutted, and the path curved round it, so that he 
was unable to see who it was. He sat still and waited, and 
soon round the curve and on to the plateau came — the miller. 
Involuntarily Kneebone rose, and the two men stood and stared 
at each other, speechless. Kneebone was the first to find 
words, and he said: 

“Good-evening, miller. Do you often come here?” 

“Good-evening, blacksmith. Yes, I come pretty often.” 

“To see the sunset, I suppose? It looks like a fine day to- 
morrow.” 

“No; I come for — my health. Walking agrees with me, and 
I like a bit of climbing.” 

“And so you come down hill for a climb?” laughed Knee- 
bone, with a note of irony. 

The miller laughed too, but uneasily, and he seemed a bit 
vexed at Kneebone’s tone. He was passing on when Kneebone 
said : 

“ This is an old lead-mine, isn’t it?” 

“ It is,” growled the miller. 

“There isn’t much done with mines round here now, I hear.” 

“ They are worked out.” 

“Well, I don’t know about that.” 

“ Indeed!” 

“I’m thinking the water has stopped a good many of them, 
and in the course of time people forget this, and fall back on 
the notion that they are worked out. Some of these mines, I 
am told, have been shut up for fifty or a hundred years. How 
long is it since this mine was worked, think you?” 

“Oh, long afore my time,” answered the miller, almost im- 
patiently. 

17 


25 8 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“Well, there’s a case in point. Do you happen to know why 
it was closed ? ” 

“Drat it if I know or care! I’ve heard tell it was worked 
out, though. If you doubt it, you had better get the squire to 
let you reopen it. A cheap rent will satisfy him, I’m think- 
ing,” replied the miller, running into his tone the contempt he 
felt at the blacksmith meddling with mines, and chattering 
in glib Yankee style of what he knew nothing about. The 
miller always thought of the blacksmith as a Yankee, though 
he knew that he claimed to be an Englishman. 

If Kneebone was nettled he did not show it. In a half-con- 
fidential tone he remarked: 

“ Would you really, as a practical man, Mr. Boden, advise 
me to reopen it? ” 

“What on earth do you mean?” cried the miller, in scornful 
wonder. 

“You probably know the reputation of each of these mines. 
As an experiment, v*ould you say that this identical mine was 
as desirable a one as any to open ? ” 

“Yes, if you want to show you are a born fool.” 

“ Not otherwise? ” inquired Kneebone, whose desire for the 
kernel of knowledge seemed to rise superior to the roughness 
of the shell inclosing it. He was so much in earnest that a 
slight frown was visible between his eyebrows. 

“I should say not,” replied the miller, emphatically. 

“ I am sorry to hear you say that.” 

“ Indeed!” 

“Because I am going to play the fool, in that case, lam 
afraid.” 

The miller, who had stood during this colloquy with his back 
half turned upon Kneebone, swung himself round of a sudden, 
exclaiming: 

“You are not going to open up this mine, surely?” 

“I am thinking of it, soon. It’s my idea there’s money in 
it, when once it is pumped dry. The squire hasn’t signed the 
agreement yet, to be sure, though he will, no doubt. There is 
no reason why you shouldn’t know ; but I should be glad if you 
would consider it confidential between us, for a few weeks. 
You see, I’d rather it wasn’t talked about till everything is 
settled.” 

“O my God !” gasped the miller, and his broad red face 
grew white as a winter’s moon. 

Kneebone looked away over the hills, and took no notice of 
his companion. The miller pulled himself together, and said 
in a husky voice: “I am thinking somebody will be ruined 


THE PLATEAU MINE 


259 


then.” Then, without another word, he continued his way 
down the steep slope. Kneebone, watching him, said to him- 
self: “ He staggers like a drunken man. It is my first blow 
for the lad. And when you begin hitting, I say, hit hard. 

0 Luke, Luke! if our dead mother had foreseen this!” And 
Kneebone buried his face in his hands, and his hands grew wet. 

That same evening, late as it was, Squire Saxton received 
two callers. They came so close together that the squire was 
closeted with one, when the other arrived and was shown into 
a room, to wait until the owner of Owlcote Park and many a 
broad acre besides was at liberty. Entering as usual through 
the keyhole, we are in time to hear the squire exclaim: 

“Why, my good sir, they will think we are both mad! I 
know the history of the mine perfectly. It would take a couple 
of thousand pounds to pump it dry, if it took a penny; and 
then it would be utterly worthless to you. You would not get 
a pig of lead out of it in a year.” 

“That would be my lookout, sir, not yours.” 

“ But in self-defence, Mr. Kneebone. They would say I had 
deceived you.” 

“Oh, I would very soon enlighten them on that score.” 

“ Then it would be at the risk of your own reputation for 
worldly wisdom. For the project really is— you will pardon 
me, but it really is ridiculous.” 

“All the same, sir, I have known men out in the diggings 
who have ‘struck oil,’ while their neighbors thought they were 
only showing with unnecessary diligence that they were born 
fools.” 

There was a short interval of silence; the squire seemed to 
be reflecting. At length he said: 

“ I was thinking that, as you seem to have set your mind 
upon the thing, you had better have the best chance possible. 
The Plateau mine, as I say, is worthless. But there is the 
Chisel wick mine, which, I think, is worth something; it was 
never properly worked. The water broke in just when, as I 
think, they were going to make a good thing of it. I frave al- 
ways thought there was money in it myself. Now, if you like, 

1 will grant you a lease of that.” 

“You are very kind, sir, and I will take it on one condition.” 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ That you will let me have the Plateau mine as well ! ” 

The squire laughed heartily. “Well, I am willing,” he said, 
“on one condition.” 

“What is that, sir?” 

“That you won’t work it!” 


26 o 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“All right/' laughed Kneebone, “I’ll take it on that condi- 
tion. I may fool about the top of it a bit, I suppose?" 

“Yes, to your heart’s content." 

“And of course none but ourselves will know that I am not 
to work it ? " 

“Oh, certainly." A little later Kneebone left the hall. 

“Ah! good-evening, Mr. Boden. I am sorry to have kept 
you waiting so long," said the squire, with his habitual cordi- 
ality, as the miller entered the room just vacated by Kneebone. 
The squire was under no sort of obligation to the miller, who, 
the fight at the sale of the Jack Wragg place apart, had more 
than once gone out of his way in order to exhibit what he 
doubtless called his personal independence. But the master of 
Owlcote Hall was not the man to obtrude such reminiscences 
under his own roof. After some general talk, the miller gath- 
ered sufficient courage to broach the subject that filled his mind 
in every nook and cranny. 

“I dare say you’ll think it strange, squire, but I’ve been 
thinking lately of doing a bit in the lead-mining way." 

“ Indeed! " and the squire slightly elevated his eyebrows. 

“It may be an outlandish notion of mine, but I’ve taken a 
fancy to the old Plateau mine, and if we could come to terms I 
should like to have a working lease of it for a few years." 

“You are sure it is the Plateau mine you want?" 

“It’s none other, sir." The squire laughed right out. 
“You think I’m taking leave of my senses, happen?" observed 
the miller, who thoroughly sympathized with that outside view 
of the matter. 

“ There seems to be a mining epidemic abroad, and the run 
is all on the Plateau mine! I confess I do not understand it. 
Now a man like our new blacksmith " 

“A devilish prying, meddlesome Yankee, that’s what he is, 
.quire," interrupted the miller, with emphasis. 

The squire smiled, and continued: “A man like that, who 
seems to have money enough to experiment with, who is a bit 
of a miiier himself, I fancy — gold-miner, I mean — and who has 
formed a habit, so to speak, of chipping every rock he comes 
across, just to see if there is not a rich vein of quartz in it, I 
can understand a man like that casting a loving eye on an 
old lead-mine. But you, miller! And the Plateau mine at 
that!" 

“You don’t mean that he’s got the start on me, I hope?" 

“Well, if we must discuss it seriously, I may as well tell you 
at once that he has. I have promised him a lease of the Pla- 
teau mine." 


THE PLATEAU MINE 


261 


“ I shouldn’t have looked for you to favor a new-comer like 
him before a native, sir.” 

The squire’s face grew serious and his tone a little cold as 
he replied: “How should I be expected to know that a native 
would want to embark in such a — a speculation?” 

“I’ll outbid him, squire, to any amount.” 

“Didn’t I say, Mr. Boden, that I had already promised him 
a lease? Since when have I been in the way of breaking my 
word — and for money?” The tone was quiet, and the con- 
tempt perfect. He rose as he spoke. The interview was 
ended. 

And now the miller entered at a bound, as though driven 
forth by fiends, that wide and drear wildernesss of the soul 
wherein are only bitter waters and sour kernels, trailing bram- 
bles and sharp rocks, and caves of darkness, the homes of the 
lizard and the bat. By day and by night, asleep or awake, he 
was haunted and pursued and at times surrounded by the hid- 
eous colossal shapes of terror, remorse, and toothless rage. 
They jeered him, they chevied him, they mauled him sore, 
they chanted in his ears the sad, hopeless, maddening rhymes 
of Hell. Ever before his eyes was — a scaffold. He had never 
seen a real one, and the thing of his imagination was ridicu- 
lously unlike the neat and ingenious instrument of the law’s 
vengeance that is now in use; but if rude and clumsy, that 
creature of his brain was efficient, and a thing of exquisite and 
horrible torture. 

Twenty years were a long time for a body to lie in water, 
and the miller spent many a dark hour speculating grimly upon 
how much would remain to tell the world of the long-hidden 
tragedy. There would be Abel’s bones — he felt sure the bones 
would be there to witness against him; and Abel’s well-remem- 
bered double-cased silver watch, with his name on the inside; 
and, yes, Abel’s — boots! It was curious what a part in the 
phantasmagoria of horror these said imaginary boots played. 
When, by pitiable tricks of fancy, such as are known only 
to the fear-haunted, he had made away with every other trace 
of identity, there always remained to confront and confound 
him — the boots. Stout and stubborn, they refused to be man- 
ipulated, or spirited away, or subjected to any of the strange 
arts of mental alchemy. With a shudder the miller would mur- 
mur to himself again and again: “Them boots will hang me! 
Them boots will hang me! ” 

Every night the miller went to see what had been done at 
the mine; and when a fortnight had gone by without anything 
having been done, he began to feed himself on the wild hope 


2 62 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


that, after all, Kneebone had abandoned the project of opening 
up the mine. But there came a night — the moon was sailing 
in and out among'small black clouds — when, to his utter dis- 
may, he found evidence that Kneebone still held to his pur- 
pose. On the plateau lay a load of bricks, and a few large 
pieces of timber; this meant the beginning of the end. After 
that, however, nothing further was done for the present. Week 
after week rolled heavily away. There lay the timber and the 
bricks, which could have only one meaning. Yet the actual 
work did not begin, and showed no signs of beginning, though 
it may very well begin any day. 

It was this delay, this suspense, this fearful and horrible 
waiting for the worst, that hit the miller hardest. He lost his 
appetite for food, and found it for strong waters. He lost 
flesh, and gained color in the imperial purple line. His tem- 
per, always variable, became fixed and steady — invariably bad. 
In these days, Ruth had a.sore time of it. She could gener- 
ally diagnose her father with more than medical skill, but for 
once she failed. A terrible affair at Yewdle Brig, ergo a terri- 
ble uprising of the spleen, ergo a terrible loss of appetite: a 
simple argument, chock-full of common-sense and — error. The 
girl was very unhappy. That Yewdle Brig affair stung and 
humiliated her, and cut her to the quick. That they should 
dare to insult her father! That her father should have dared 
to deserve it! In these days her love for Abel was a precious 
balsam. The two lovers met often, for Ruth was left more to 
herself than ever before. 

Ever since man loved woman and woman loved man have 
the woodland paths and shades and thickets been consecrated 
to lovers’ vows and lovers’ woes. Municipal corporations may 
provide public parks and gardens and libraries, and swimming- 
baths to the end of the chapter, and yet fail to secure perfectly 
equipped towns. In the future, when only the idealistic will 
meet the every-day requirements of our exceedingly nice great- 
great-grandchildren, the ideal town will be built, and no other 
kind of town. And the ideal town will be fringed about with 
a great green wood, wherein lovers, and they only, may enter 
and swear those idealistic vows which, let us hope, will entail 
only an idealistic damnation. At Voe there was plenty of 
woodland, and here our disconsolate pair often met. Some- 
times, Silas being out of the way, they would meet at Violet 
Chalk’s picturesque cottage on the margin of the rolling up- 
lands. More often still, Abel would run up the steep, sandy 
lane to the cottage and send word to Ruth, by Violet, when 
and where they would next meet. 


THE PLATEAU MINE 


263 


The two lovers were thoroughly unhappy and most delight- 
fully happy; a contradiction which love makes light of, and 
none will quarrel at, save sere maidens and surly, churly bach- 
elors. They were so sweetly melancholy, so wretchedly happy, 
that they almost forgot the existence of Am Ende. But Am 
Ende never forgot them, and seldom lost sight of them long 
together. He made his weekly reports to the miller, who, how- 
ever, took no steps to prevent these frequent lovers’ meetings. 
At length a strange rumor began to spread through Voe, in a 
kind of subterranean manner. Nobody knew who originated 
it, or how true it was; but those were little points of mystery 
that only made it the more piquant. It was scandalous, and so 
was tasted and enjoyed a la sourdine. And this was the sinister 
rumor: “There was summat up atwixt Abel Boden and Violet 
Chalk! My stars, if Silas on’y knowed! ” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


On the stone terrace 

The miller attributed Kneebone’s delay in beginning oper- 
ations at the mine to his being busy with another bit of his 
tomfoolery. By which phrase the miller indicated his opinion 
of the Memorial Hall scheme. As may be readily divined, 
this was not Kneebone’s reason for delay, though he made no 
scruple of accepting it as such, when it was gratuitously offered 
to him by the inquisitive natives. In the course of his varied 
career, Kneebone had acquired the useful talent of letting in- 
quisitive people inform him concerning his own private plans 
and purposes. Acquiescence in popular rumor was a valuable 
art, he thought. It saved one the trouble of explaining one’s 
self, when others did it at their own expense; moreover, it 
avoided the friction between good friends that was frequently 
generated by personal denial and explanation. The desire to 
be always rightly understood and never misrepresented by 
one’s curious neighbors far and near, Kneebone thought, was 
a very parochial and untravelled form of egotism; and remem- 
bering how prosaic life is to most neighbors far and near, he 
held it to be an act of benevolence to contribute something in 
his own person to the ever meagre stock of local romance. He 
took kindly to that saying of Lamb’s: “Truth is precious, and 
is not to be wasted on everybody.” 

So it came to pass that all Voe knew that Christopher Knee- 
bone put off his odd venture in the mine simply because he was 
up to his ears in work on the beautiful structure that was going 
to be the pride and boast of the village. That venture of his 
in the mine was an odd thing, to be sure — a thing concerning 
which, like Sir Roger, they held there was something to be 
said on both sides. The miller, who was a knowing man, was 
dead against it; he declared it to be at the best nothing but 
“tomfoolery,” and at the worst it was — unquotable. 

But it was not for the Voese to side against the man who was 
doing for Voe what Kneebone was doing; besides which, the 
subject was juicy and fresh, and could afford to await fit and 
proper discussion at a future time. For the present, they found 
sufficient interest in watching the making of the foundation, 


ON THE STONE TERRACE 


265 


and the slow uprising of the walls, and the gradual assumption 
of shape and style in the building that was already “our Hall.” 
Scarcely a day went by but what Miss Janoca Phythian came 
down to see how things were getting along ; she might have been 
building it herself, from the way in which she managed every- 
thing and everybody. Kneebone was nowhere beside her, but 
seemed to wait her good-will and pleasure at every turn; a 
clever, capable woman was Miss Janoca Phythian, as any one 
with half an eye could see, and’ a born lady to boot. Voe was 
delighted, for it had an almost superstitious reverence for her 
ability and so.und judgment. Need it be said that the extin- 
guished man, Christopher Kneebone, was also delighted? For 
the pleasure of seeing her daily, of watching her gracious ways, 
of listening to her sweet and cultivated voice, of getting one 
of her frank, free, steady looks, as she turned her dark and 
glorious eyes upon him — for this it was a bliss to be — extin- 
guished. Rather than lose it all, he was prepared to go on 
building memorial halls forever. 

Balthasar Phythian watched the movement of events with 
placid satisfaction; he used his eyes and ears well, and made 
little use of his tongue. Words were dangerous things, and 
the fewer used the better, especially at a time when a few heed- 
less syllables might bring about his ears in ruins the pretty, 
fantastic structure which, he persuaded himself, he beheld 
growing into existence day by day, like a fair temple built by 
magic rather than by art or man’s device. At any rate, so long 
as Jano’s mind was otherwise occupied, there was a fair chance 
that she would not turn her attention to the dreadful subject of 
getting him a wife. Full of serene guile and subtile hope, Bal- 
thasar was plastic as clay and pliant as a willow. A most de- 
lightful brother, he lived apparently to make everything easy 
and smooth for his stately sister, whom he humored and waited 
upon with such thoroughbred and all-round gallantry and devo- 
tion as might very well have bred suspicion as to its motive, 
in these days of inferior manners among superior people. 

But Janoca had a large and open nature, in which it was 
difficult for any mean suspicion to find a lurking-place. She 
accepted the fine devotion of her brother as it had been a bit of 
exquisite commonplace, as wonted as it was fit and proper. 
And somehow this gracious indifference, this seeming sweet 
familiarity with what was really an innovation in conduct, im- 
pressed Balthasar as being a kind of courtly compliment and 
flattery worthy of a queen. It seemed a royal way of saying: 
“Blood will tell. Now you are true to your nature, O Bal- 
thasar!” 


2 66 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


On those days when Janoca was unable to go down to Voe, 
Balthasar would be sure to say to Kneebone: “We shall hope 
to see you at the Chase to-night. Be sure and bring the plans 
with you.” Thus it came about that Christopher Kneebone 
was frequently to be found at Carbel Chase. He soon discov- 
ered, indeed, that it was not always convenient and never ab- 
solutely necessary to wait for an invitation. Ideas frequently 
occurred to him which he thought it wiser to impart to Janoca 
without delay. It was singular what a variety of ideas oc- 
curred to him; his mental activity was surprising. This kind 
of cargo he generally unloaded early in the afternoon. 

One day in the beginning of August Kneebone was at the 
Chase, freighted with ideas as usual. Deep peace had settled 
upon Balthasar in his arm-chair. Janoca, however, was wide 
awake, and her face and eyes were unusually animated — perhaps 
she was conscious of Kneebone’s eyes, which to-day met hers 
with strange new meanings in them; they seemed, indeed, 
to have become speaking organs full of moving eloquence. 
Kneebone was on the point of leaving, when Balthasar opened 
his eyes and said : 

“ You are not going, are you ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I thought we were going to Carkloe Manor?” 

“ To-day ? ” 

“ Yes. It is a beautiful day, and I have had a glorious 
siesta — I sank twenty fathoms deep in sleep in twenty seconds. 
I felt the dark, soft billows roll over me. Ah me! if death is 
only like that! Let us go. I feel in a pensive mood.” 

“Are you quite awake, brother?” inquired Janoca. 

“Yes; at least I think so. Still I am pensive all the same, 
and my poor spirit yearns for the melancholy of the old yew 
garden at the manor. Jano, speak the word! ” 

Janoca looked at Kneebone, and Kneebone looked at Janoca. 

“I think we may as well go,” she said, in as judicial a tone 
as she could assume, while a most unjudicial blush rose and 
fell, like a sudden tidal wave on the beautiful shore of some 
mysterious sea of lovely color. 

The Carkloe Manor estate adjoined that of Carbel Chase, 
but the house was about three miles from the Chase. A foot- 
path through fields and woods and rocky dells ran from park to 
park. The manor-house, which dated from the middle of the 
sixteenth century, stood on high ground five and a half miles 
from the nearest station, and consequently out of the beat of 
the ordinary tourist. Yet its fame was sufficiently great to at- 
tract scores during the year to visit it; they had to hire con- 


ON THE STONE TERRACE 267 

veyances at Yewdle Brig and pay for them, but nobody was 
ever heard to say upon returning that they had not had their 
money's worth. The place had, of course, a history of its 
own: it made no pretensions, for a wonder, of having sheltered 
either Mary Queen of Scots or the Merry Monarch in the evil 
days; but it had stood a couple of sieges at the hands of the 
Parliamentarians, and one by the Royalists. The ubiquitous 
Oliver had first bombarded it and afterward slept in it. Every 
year, at midnight on the 5th of October, up from the old lake 
in the park rose a gray horse, which whinnied and neighed 
under a venerable oak that grew hard by, and then without 
sound of hoof went like the wind toward the Lady’s Wood, un- 
til its form was lost to view in the white mists of the valley. 
Nobody believes in ghosts nowadays, but catch a dweller in 
those parts crossing Carkloe Park on the fifth night in October, 
if you can! With its turrets and battlements, loop-holes, gar- 
goyles, and projecting leaden spouts, its fine archways and flag- 
paved court-yard, the manor looked what in truth it was, a 
diminutive castle. Seeing workmen about and scaffolding up, 
Kneebone said, as they drew near: 

“ What is going on ? Are they renovating it ? ” 

“It looks like it, and I expect it needs it. You know the 
owner has only just come of age; no one but the bailiff and his 
family has lived in it for a long while — twelve or fifteen years, 
I should think,” remarked Balthasar. 

“ Is Mr. Stroud himself coming to reside here ? ” asked Janoca. 

“I suppose so. I heard he wanted to sell the estate and go 
abroad to live, some time ago. I expect he has given up the 
idea, from the look of it.” 

“Couldn’t find a customer probably,” suggested Kneebone. 

“ Probably. It is a large estate — three thousand acres or 
more. Purchasers of that calibre are not easily found, and 
when found, difficult to please.” 

“Why does not Messrs. Job Else & Company purchase it?” 
said Janoca, laughing lightly as she looked at Kneebone. 

“ Do you wish to know ? ” he inquired. 

“ Certainly.” 

“ In the first place, I should say he was too late now. Then, 
it would take a pile of money. Again, it is a picturesque old 
place, but, for a lone man, rather big. Above all, how would 
it sound — Abel Boden, sometime Squire Saxton’s head shep- 
herd, now master of Carkloe Manor! Don’t you think the 
world would laugh, Miss Phythian?” 

“ Why should it ? Some few of us may be fortunate enough 
to have had grandfathers; but we should not laugh. The 


268 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


laughers would only be those who have made recent genealog- 
ical discoveries, and whose arms are as new as their plate. 
Let them laugh. We with grandfathers should perhaps smile 
among ourselves, but you would not see us. And really, what 
would be the use of having had a grandfather, if we may not 
smile good-naturedly at a man who ought to have had one?” 

This saying, thought Kneebone, sounded sweet in the sweetly 
proud mouth of Janoca Phythian. They crossed a very narrow 
stone arch, that once spanned the moat that was still distinctly 
traceable in outline, and entered the court-yard. 

“ I am going to leave you now. When you want me you will 
find me in the garden, sitting on the stone bench under the old 
yew-tree, or walking with meditative steps along the terrace,” 
said Balthasar, and straightway he disappeared through a low 
doorway. 

Kneebone was not at all sorry to see him go, but a shade of 
vexation swept across the face of Janoca. 

“Do you know your way about?” asked Kneebone of his 
companion. 

“Oh, yes; I have been here frequently,” she answered. 

Kneebone turned to the bailiff’s daughter, who stood ready 
to show them over the place, and said: 

“Then I don’t think we shall need your services.” He 
slipped a coin into her hand, and she left them. 

“ I am afraid you have done an unwise thing. I cannot rat- 
tle off the history of the place nearly so well as she can. 
There is something worth noting in nearly every room,” ob- 
served Janoca. 

“ I don’t like those talking parrots. I would rather trust to 
my eyes. Where shall we begin?” 

“Oh, at the cellars, the crypt, and the kitchens, of course.” 

They started and went through the whole pile. In almost 
every room there were men busily at work. 

“ They are a frightful nuisance. In a place like this one ex- 
pects to encounter the concentrated quietude of centuries, not 
the bustle of a modern workshop,” exclaimed Kneebone, with 
a touch of impatience. 

Janoca laughed sweetly and said: “But the man who is go- 
ing to live here is not a patriarch. He is a modern man, and 
evidently desires modern surroundings. And after all, I think 
he deserves a lot of credit for his good taste.” 

“ You think so ? ” 

“Certainly. Is not this very room a proof of his taste?” 
They were standing in the drawing-room, a long apartment 
covered with exquisite panel-work. Kneebone assumed a crit- 


ON THE STONE TERRACE 269 

ical air, surveyed the place for some time in silence, and 
finally remarked : 

“ I guess it might be made a real elegant apartment.” 

“ I should call that the dialect of Chicago, not of Boston or 
New York,” laughed Janoca. 

“You are right. Boston would call it ‘an awfully pretty 
place. ’ ” 

“ And Boston would be right. It is going to be lovely when 
it is finished. And that fireplace — O Mr. Kneebone, what I 
would give for a fireplace like that! ” 

“ Do you like that old leaded window there, filling up the 
entire end of the room?” 

“ Please do not talk in that barbaric tone. One would think 
you would like to destroy one of the most charming features of 
the room. Yet I think, if it were my place, I should make one 
alteration.” 

“ Indeed ! what is that ? ” asked Kneebone, with great interest. 

“ I think the room is a little dark. It is too long to be 
lighted by one window only.” 

“Where would you put another one?” 

“At the other end, which would command a beautiful view 
of the park.” 

“Then it shall be done,” said Kneebone, with such gravity 
that Janoca burst into a merry peal of laughter. 

With the decoration of the lofty vaulted dining-room Janoca 
was delighted, as well she may have been, seeing that the bare 
gray panels were being covered with large cartoons splendidly 
executed. Presently they entered the ball-room two sides of 
which were given up to windows, the others to richly carved 
woodwork. All this elaborate carving was being carefully hid- 
den from sight by a series of remarkably handsome book-cases 
in red cedar. Janoca raised her hands in horror, exclaiming: 

“ O the barbarian! ” 

“ Nay, don’t say that. It is the best touch about the place. 
The man is fond of books,” pleaded Kneebone. 

“And he must go and filch the ball-room for a bookstall ! 
Hide that lovely carving with colored cloths and sheepskins! 
Oh, it is wicked! ” 

“ But it is the only room in the house that could be spared. 
No room is too good for books. I count them almost sacred 
things.” 

“ He never reads them, I am sure. If he did, they would 
have humanized him, and made him incapable of such an out- 
rage. The truth is, he has a club-foot and cannot dance, and 
this is his revenge! ” 


270 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“But where would you have him go with his books?" 

“Go, sir! Why, into the crypt! ” 

“Say the cellar at once." 

“The cellar? Oh, dear, no. The wine would be there. 
And an idle student in a wine-cellar would never do." 

“ Then what would you have done here, pray? " 

“ First of all, these hideous ” 

“ Now come, be fair. They are very handsome cases, and 
must have cost a lot of money." 

“Granted. In their proper place I really think I should 
greatly admire them, but here they are an eyesore. Those out 
of the way, I would have the room finished in white and gold; 
and in those plain panels, I would have Watteau designs done 
by a master; and the ceiling — oh, I do not quite know. I will 
think about that, and let you know." 

“Thank you. It shall be as you wish," said Kneebone, and 
again his gravity made Jarioca laugh. 

By and by they went out of doors, and following a laurel- 
hedged path, came at length on to a stone terrace overlooking 
a grass-plot, with a fountain and a statue in the centre, and 
surrounded by ancient yew-trees. Balthasar Phythian sat on a 
stone bench under the shadow of one of the trees. The tender 
antique melancholy of the spot touched a deep chord in his 
nature. 

“Dear fellow! he is perfectly happy now," murmured Janoca, 
lovingly. 

“Yet I do not envy him," said Kneebone, in a low voice. 

“ I thought the happy were always to be envied ? Why do 
you not envy him ? " 

“ Because I should not care ever again to be happy without 
— you by my side." 

How the color burned in her face as she said, with a little 
nervous laugh: 

“You men are always saying foolish things just when we ex- 
pect you to speak wise ones! " 


CHAPTER XXXII 


A LOVER AND HIS LASS 

The miller was away from home, and was not expected back 
for some hours. The day had been unusually close and sultry 
even for August; but as the sun began to dip toward the tops 
of the hills, a cool breeze sprang up and murmured softly among 
the pines that embowered the mill. Ruth came to the front 
door, and stood with her hands clasped behind her. Her eyes 
were on the hay-ricks, but her thoughts were with her lover. 
Suddenly the girl’s face brightened, as Violet Chalk came up 
the lane and into the cobble-paved yard. 

“ I am so glad you have come. I have been by myself all 
day, and I think I was feeling lonely,” exclaimed Ruth, as 
Violet Chalk drew near. 

“You are sure it was me you wanted to see, Miss Ruth? 
Me alone, whether I brought a message or not ? ” queried 
Violet Chalk, with a merry laugh, and a roguish twinkle in 
her eyes. 

“Yes, you alone; but have you — brought anything, Violet?” 

“Ah, but it’s a pretty thing to blush like that. But happen 
you’ll blush hotter than that ere the night’s out, when some- 
body ” 

“Violet! You are forgetting yourself, surely.” 

“ There’s no harm done, I should hope, in kissing one’s lover. 
Oh, if my man Silas was only as handsome as I know who, I’d 
smother him with kisses! Yes, I’ve got a message. He wants 
you to meet him in the fir ring, on the way to Black Rocks, at 
half-past eight. And you’ve got no time to lose either, Miss 
Ruth.” 

“ I don’t like that way; it is so lonely.” 

“Happen that is why he chose it.” 

“And I nearly always take the wrong path.” 

“ If you like, I will go with you as far as the old gamekeep- 
er’s cottage. I know the path well enough — not that I ever 
went a-courting along it. If I could only have my courting 

days over again, wouldn’t I ” But Ruth had thrust her 

fingers into her ears and rushed into the house. 


2J2 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


Violet Chalk stood for some moments in profound medita- 
tion, then a smile broke over her face as she remarked to her- 
self aloud: “Yes, it is a good thing girls don’t know every- 
thing.” And on this bit of wisdom her mind seemed to rest 
with satisfaction. In a little while Ruth reappeared, wearing 
a cream-colored dress, a broad-brimmed hat, knots of blue rib- 
bon; she carried a stick in one hand, and a little quaint shawl 
of brown silk in the other. 

“Shall you be warm enough, Miss Ruth? I brought my 
cloak with me, for I thought we were going to have a shower.” 

Ruth glanced at the warm blue sky, that was quite cloudless, 
and said: 

“Yes, I shall be warm enough with this shawl. I almost 
wish it would rain, just to cool the air; but there is not much 
sign of it now.” 

They set out for their walk. A few minutes later, Am Ende 
came out of the mill and followed them down the lane. Ruth 
and her companion crossed some meadows, and entered a wood 
known as the King’s Lot, which covered the slopes of a lofty 
hill; they followed a grass-covered footpath that ran up the 
hill with many curious windings, until they came to a point 
where the path branched out in four or five directions. 

“There, I knew it would be so! ” exclaimed Ruth, as Violet 
Chalk proceeded along one of the paths. “ If you had not 
come with me, I should certainly have taken the road to the 
right.” 

“ You can always tell the way by those two firs there; the 
one old and dark and grim-looking, and the other young and 
nice-looking and light green, you see. Two years ago I chris- 
tened them father and daughter; now I call them miller and 
daughter. And for keeping you in the right path, Miss Ruth, 
trust Violet Chalk! ” 

“You always were conceited, Violet. I suppose it helps 
you to keep up your gay spirits and your good looks.” 

Violet Chalk laughed at this sally. 

“ As I was about to say a minute ago, if I was you, Miss 
Ruth, if somebody asked me to make a runaway marriage with 
him, I should say: ‘Oh, whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.’ 
And when he whistled, I should go to him, miller or no miller,” 
she said, with no little earnestness. 

“I wonder what in the world you will say next! And that 
is what you call ‘keeping me in the right path,’ is it?” an- 
swered Ruth, laughing, while the color burned in her face. 

“Yes, it is. The miller will live for another ten years at 
least. Do you think he will ever give his consent? And are 


A LOVER AND HIS LASS 


273 


you two going to wait till you are gray before you wed? You 
would be ” 

“Will you allow me to remark, Violet, that I am not so old 
as you seem to think I am — though perhaps I am wiser than 
you give me credit for? It will take more than ten years, 
madam, to turn my hair even to the suspicious shade of your 
own ! ” 

“My hair turning gray! Oh, what a wicked slander! It is 
exactly the color of your own, Miss Ruth, just as we are both 
of the same height and build. Gray, indeed! When my hair 
turns, it will be into a lovely golden. I wish I could persuade 
you two to be sensible, and take the bull by the horns. If you 
don’t ” 

“I have just felt a spot of rain, and another. Just look at 
that cloud behind us.” 

“Yes, we shall have a shower. We had better run for the 
gamekeeper’s cottage. You would be wet through in no time, 
Miss Ruth.” 

They set off at a run, and in a couple of minutes reached 
the little ivy-clad ruin that stood in a clearing, and about 
which the rabbits played at feeding-time. They had barely 
entered this half-unroofed cottage when a flash of lightning 
was seen, followed by a clap of thunder that startled a bat that 
flew out for a few moments, wheeled about in an eccentric fash- 
ion, and then came back through the doorway and hid itself 
under the ivy on the wall. Then the rain fell, at first in big 
angry drops, and then in the steady, business-like way famil- 
iar to hill-and-dale folk. There was no more thunder and 
lightning, but the minutes flew by and it was still raining; the 
rain was light now, but wetting. 

“He will guess you were on your way, and he will be wait- 
ing for you. If you don’t want him to get wet through, you 
had better take my cloak, and run to the fir-grove and bring 
him here. It won’t take you more than a couple of minutes to 
get there. Or shall I go for you ? ” Ruth preferred to go her- 
self, and said so. “And won’t you put on my bonnet, too, 
Miss Ruth? Your pretty hat would get spoiled.” Ruth ac- 
cepted, with thanks. “ There now, you might be mistaken for 
me. And you’ll see, he will kiss you all the same, and happen 
without troubling to look and see which of us it is! He’s only 
a man, and I know ” 

She ended with a merry laugh, for Ruth had run away from 
her, and was now tripping gracefully along beneath the over- 
hanging trees, looking remarkably like Violet Chalk, save that 
her carriage was peculiarly her own. A few hundred yards 
18 


274 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


brought her to the ring of fir-trees. She entered the open space 
between the trees, and glanced round; there was no one there. 
She stood irresolute, wondering if her lover had been and gone, 
and was on the point of returning to the ruined cottage, when 
Abel suddenly appeared a short distance away, standing be- 
tween two large rocks. He came forward with a bound, and 
took her in his arms. 

“ I have been keeping dry in there. Are you wet ? I thought 
it was Violet Chalk come to say you couldn’t come,” he said, 
as he kissed her in lover-like fashion. 

“ I am not at all wet. Violet came with me to show me the 
road. We sheltered in the old cottage; and she lent me her 
cloak and bonnet. You won’t ever mistake her forme, though, 
will you?” said Ruth, archly. 

“ Not much fear, though they say all cats are gray in the 
dark,” laughed Abel. 

“You had better not look at cats in the dark, then. Hadn’t 
we better go back to the cottage ? She will be expecting us; 
and it is still raining a little.” 

“ I don’t think it would be wise for you to stand long in your 
damp things; but we won’t go just yet, darling. I want to 
have you all to myself for a while,” said Abel. 

He stood just inside the circle against a tree, and as he spoke 
he put his arms beneath her cloak and round her waist, and 
drew her close to him. Ruth, nothing loath to be loved, yielded. 
The minutes flew by unheeded; not so the thousand-and-one 
love-touches, love-words, love-looks, love-vows. These were 
all subtile filaments that went to the making of the great chord 
of love, ever mysterious and ever sacred, wherewith their two 
lives were bound together for better for worse, for richer for 
poorer, in health and in sickness, until death them should part. 
Their nerves tingled, their blood burned, their hearts were full 
and their spirits happy. The divine list of sex and the sweet 
ache of soul — both good in the eyes of God — were blent inex- 
tricably into the holy passion of human love. In this, the one 
mood in which mortals lay hold of the eternal element in life, 
what wonder that the two lovers lost all sense of time? Sud- 
denly, however, the lost sense was restored, and Ruth disen- 
gaged herself from her lover’s arm with a quick movement. 

“We must go now, love.” 

“Very well. You are not cold, sweetheart ? ” Ruth gave a 
little laugh full of sweet meaning, and glancing at Abel, shook 
her head at him in a pretty, coquettish way. 

On reaching the cottage they found Violet Chalk sitting on 


A LOVER AND HIS LASS 


275 

a large stone — fast asleep! When she awoke, Abel and Ruth 
were standing near the entrance, talking in a low voice. 

“Ah, there is nothing like a good conscience to sleep on. I 
was just dreaming about you two when you came in,” said 
Violet Chalk, rising. 

“When we came in? We have been here ten minutes or 
more; have we not, Abel?” exclaimed Ruth, laughing. 

“ I didn’t say anything to the contrary, Miss Ruth. I wasn’t 
going to wake until I had finished my dream. It was such a 
nice one. I heard the bells pealing, and Miss Ruth there was 
all in white, with orange-blossoms and ” 

“All right, Violet; let me imagine the rest, till the happy 
day comes. We must be going now,” said Abel, for Ruth’s 
sake. 

Violet Chalk made no reply, only tossed her head in mock 
anger. On the edge of the wood, near the meadows, Abel left 
them; and then only would Violet Chalk allow Ruth to dis- 
pense with her warm cloak. Arrived at the mill, they found 
that the miller had just reached home. He seemed in a won- 
derfully good temper, and made no remark about Ruth having 
been out so late. Violet Chalk soon left, and Ruth busied her- 
self with getting her father a nice supper. Toward the close 
of the meal, Jane, the domestic, appeared and said: 

“ Please, sir, Am Ende wants to see you.” 

“Very well. I’ll see him presently,” said the miller. 

She did not know why, but Ruth shivered when she heard the 
name of Am Ende, 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


IN A TRAP 

Only on rare occasions, and at long intervals, did Miller 
Boden honor with his presence the pretty cottage on the edge 
of the upland, where dwelt Mistress Violet Chalk. It was 
with no little surprise, therefore, that Violet Chalk beheld the 
miller coming along the garden-walk on the afternoon of the 
day following her stroll with Ruth to the fir ring. Her person 
was always neat, and her home was always bright as a new 
button and sweet as a nosegay; so she had no fear on either of 
these scores. Yet, oddly enough, she felt a most unusual and 
unaccountable sensation of fear. Nevertheless, she put on a 
smiling face, and met her former master at the door with a wel- 
come. 

“It is quite a tug up the lane on a day like this,” said the 
miller, as he entered the bright little living-room, and, sink- 
ing into Silas’ arm-chair, mopped his large red face with an 
antique-looking yellow and red pear-patterned handkerchief. 

“Shall I get you a glass of beer, sir?” asked Violet Chalk, 
thinking to herself that the miller was in a wonderfully good 
humor, and racking her brain to discover the probable object 
of his visit. 

“Well, I don’t mind if I do. I know your man keeps a good 
tap,” he said, in his best manner. # 

The woman brought him the beer, which he held in his hand 
and drank slowly, dwelling at length on the merits of the vari- 
ous local beers; then he had a hundred questions to ask Violet 
Chalk on household matters, and when he had exhausted them 
he fell back upon her kitchen-garden, and talked vegetables for 
a solid half-hour. And meanwhile he was good-tempered and 
almost jolly; once or twice he laughed heartily — a thing which 
Violet Chalk had not known to happen for a good dozen years. 
This puzzled the woman greatly, and her curiosity became 
burning. She was sewing, but soon her excitement got into 
her fingers, and she put her work down on her lap. Just then 
the miller asked: 

“Where’s Silas?” 


IN A TRAP 


277 


“He is out. I don’t look for him back till tea-time.” 

“Which is at what time?” 

“ Five o’clock.” 

“That’s an hour and forty minutes off, ” said the miller, 
glancing at the old slow-ticking clock in the corner near to the 
gun-rack. 

“Yes. Did you want to see him ? ” 

“Oh, dear, no. Do you expect any visitor this afternoon?” 

Was his tone really sly ? Had he been drinking? She an- 
swered no to the second question and yes to the first. She 
was angry with herself, but she could not help it; the blood 
was hot in her face. 

“ Not that I know of. Why do you ask ? ” she said, with a 
touch of defiance. 

“Because I’ve got something serious to say. And I didn’t 
want to be broken in upon while saying it,” answered the 
miller, with a sudden change of tone and manner that was 
enough to startle any ordinary set of nerves. It thoroughly 
startled Violet Chalk. Her brown eyes opened wide, and she 
made a movement as if to rise. “ Nay, sit still and hear it out. 
Happen at the end a bit of a walk will do you good,” said the 
miller, with blunt irony. 

The woman made no reply, but sat perfectly still. The 
miller leaned forward in his chair, resting both hands on the 
top of his stout oak stick, and looking her full in the face, said: 

“I little thought, Violet Chalk, that I should ever live to 
hear this kind of talk about you. When you looked after my 
girl Ruth, and kept house for me, you were an honest woman. 
And now ” 

“And now — what? ’’said Violet Chalk, quickly, her eyes 
flashing. 

“Now you are — not.” 

“Indeed! that’s news. And so that’s the meaning of your 
fit of good temper, is it? Oh, if I was only a man, or you a 
woman! ” She spoke almost in a whisper, but the effect out- 
stripped any noise. 

“ It is of no use beginning that game with me. I don’t come 
here on a fool’s errand, nor am I like to be sent away by a 
fool’s bluster. I suppose you know that your name is in every 
mouth in the village, don’t you?” 

“I know nothing at all about it. If they like my name, let 
them speak it.” Her anger was still bubbling up, though a 
dreadful terror was creeping upon her. 

“They do speak it, and have been speaking it now for weeks, 
in a lighter way than an honest woman would care for.” 


278 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“Mr. Boden, you are Miss Ruth’s father, and for a good 
many years you was my master, and I wouldn’t like to forget 
my duty to you. But if you won’t stop that talk about me be- 
ing no longer an honest woman, I’ll ask you, sir, to please to 
leave my husband’s house. I would have got the poker to any 
other man, and ordered him off for a blackguardly liar! ” 

This was plain English, and the miller blinked at it. He 
pulled out his aggressive handkerchief and blew his nose vig- 
orously. The woman, who knew the man perfectly, saw that 
she had scored a point, and shrewdly thought it would not be 
bad generalship to follow up the momentary advantage with a 
blow that might possibly rout the already demoralized foe. So 
she added: 

“And to think that you, Miller Boden, of all men, should be 
the one to dabble in scandalous reports and nasty gossip! 
Them as live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. I mind 
me of the time when folks had your name, too, in their mouths. 
It’s a good many years since last I heard it, I’ll allow; but 
when people have once talked of a man as a murderer, they re- 
member it to their dying day.” 

For some moments glared the miller at her in silence, then 
he scratched his lower lip that was smarting keenly ; the dan- 
gerous expression of his eyes died away, and he gave vent to an 
ironical grunt. 

“You are a silly, babbling idiot, no more and no less. Now 
listen to me. Young Boden, the blacksmith, has been coming 
here pretty often of late. They’ve coupled your names to- 
gether for some time now. I should like to know what brings 
him here ? ” 

“That’s none of your business, that I know of,” replied Vio- 
let Chalk, but her heart trembled. 

“All right; let it stand at that. He never comes when Silas 
is about— perhaps I shouldn’t under the same circumstances.” 

“ It is false.” 

“ Say incorrect, Violet, and I’ll agree with you. Sometimes 
Silas is in when he comes, and then — he comes bravely up like 
a man, and he and Silas have a friendly pipe and a glass to- 
gether, eh? Is that it? Not quite. When Silas is at home 
there’s a little signal kept flying— you see I know all about it: 
an upstairs blind on brass rods is partly drawn aside. Then 
the modest young man goes his way, and does not intrude upon 
your domestic bliss. Yes, one at a time is not a bad rule.” 

“Well, I won’t lie about it. Suppose he has come as you 
say: it’s only been a few times, and he has come on honest bus- 
iness, and ” 


IN A TRAP 


*79 


“Honest business! When he comeson signal, and avoids 
your husband! Come, I might be a schoolboy. Anyhow, his 
business is so honest that it is not to be spoken, it seems.” 

Violet Chalk hung her head, not for shame, for she had noth- 
ing to be ashamed of, but in perplexity. She felt she was in a 
trap, and how to get out of it she could not see, without dis- 
loyalty to Ruth. It was not in her to betray Ruth. Said the 
miller, after a pause: 

“ The nuisance is, with you women, when once you begin go- 
ing to the dogs you can’t go fast enough to please you. Take 
last night, for instance. You must actually go and make an 
appointment with the modest, the good, the honorable young 
man to meet him in the woods.” 

“ It is a vile lie. I did nothing of the kind.” 

“You mean to say you didn’t meet Abel Boden last night in 
the woods ? ” 

“No, I did not — not by appointment, not in your sense.” 

The miller laughed. 

“ Still you met him? ” 

“Yes, I saw him. But I hadn’t expected to see him, and I’m 
very sure he didn’t expect to see me.” 

“Ha! these delightful surprises! Funny how they should 
come about, isn’t it? It was all a surprise that you found 
yourself in the fir ring! ” 

“ I wasn’t near the fir ring last night.” 

“ It was all a surprise that you found yourself in his arms, 
and lay there while he kissed you as if he had been — Silas! ” 

Violet Chalk shuddered. She saw a dreadful issue only to 
all this. Yet her tongue was sealed. Continued the miller, 
artfully: 

“ I’ve bethought me that happen you would say that some- 
body else was mixed up in all this?” 

“And if so, do you think I’d be mean enough to betray 
them? What I have done, I have done, and I’ll stand by.” 

“Well, stick to that; I’ve no objection. Anything else 
would take a deal of proving — leastways tome, and, I’m think- 
ing, to your man as well. Now, what are you going to do 
about it all ? ” 

“First, I shall mind my own business; and next, I shall tell 
such as meddle with mine to mind theirs,” answered Violet 
Chalk, bravely enough to the ear. 

The miller scratched his head, and reflected awhile. Pres- 
ently he said: 

“If this comes out you are a ruined woman.” 

“I thought you said it was out?” 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


280 

“Well, yes, it is out this much — everybody’s coupling your 
name with the smith’s. The gossip is out, but not the proof,’’ 
explained the miller. 

“ Proof ? How can you prove what is false ? ” demanded the 
woman. The miller smiled. 

“ In the mouth of two or three witnesses a thing shall be es- 
tablished. There are more than that prepared to make oath 
that I know on. I’ve got hold of every one of them, and it 
rests with me whether they forget all about it or whether they 
spread it all abroad. I ask you again, what are you going to 
do about it?” 

“ O master, why are you so cruel ? Do you want to ruin 
me?” cried Violet Chalk, reproachfully. 

“ No, my wench. I want to save you, or I shouldn’t be here 
now.” 

“ Does Silas know aught about it?” 

“Well, is it likely, do you think? Has he said anything to 
you about it ? ” 

“ No, no! If he knew he’d kill me.” 

“ That’s what I said to myself. He’s such a surly, pig- 
headed, jealous fool, that he wouldn’t believe you if you were 
as innocent as a baby; and you are not that, quite. It rests 
with yourself whether he knows or not.” 

“Oh, please, don’t let him know! He’d swear I was guilty 
— and I’m not, master; as I hope to be saved at the last, I done 
nothing to wrong him. Happen, if I up and told him all afore 
he’s heard anything outside, he would believe me, don’t you 
think?” 

At this the miller’s countenance assumed an odd expression, 
while he said: “Maybe he would, but it’s uncertain. But one 
thing is sure: if he once knew what I know he wouldn’t believe 
a word you said, not if you got down on your knees and swore 
it on the Bible.” 

“You wouldn’t tell him, surely?” 

“ That depends. If you will fall in with my plan, he need 
never know a word about it. But if you don’t — ere the night 
is out Silas Chalk will know everything. And then may God 
have mercy on your soul ! ” 

“O master, master! spare me, spare me! Don’t go and 
ruin me, and break up my home! He’ll turn me out, if he 
doesn’t murder me. I served you well for many a long year; 
and Miss Ruthie, I love the ground she treads on. Have pity, 
master! ” She was on her knees before him, so great was her 
terror, so dire and woful seemed her impending fate. The 
miller’s heart was hard as his own mill-stones. 


IN A TRAP 


281 


“There’s no call for this fuss, if you will do what I want 
you. If you won’t, I’d advise you to go and jump into the 
Scarthin. Will you listen to what I've got to say?” 

“Yes, yes! ” moaned the woman. 

“ Then get up and sit down. I can't talk to a woman saying 
her prayers! ” 

She rose and seated herself in her chair. Said the miller: 

“ All I want you to do is to give up and get rid of this honor- 
able young blacksmith. He must leave Voe, and put ten miles 
atwixt his workshop and my mill. That’s all there is to it, 
and I’ll give him a week from to-day to clear out. Get him 
away, and everything shall be hushed up. But if he isn’t out 
of Voe in seven days Silas Chalk and all Voe shall know what 
I know. I’ll make it too warm for either of you two to walk 
through Voe, or my name isn’t LukeBoden!” With this he 
got on his feet, and left the cottage without another word. 

It was close on midnight, and Christopher Kneebone was 
seated in a low arm-chair in the little cozy library at Rook’s 
Nest. His pipe was out, his glass of toddy was nearly fin- 
ished, he ought to have been in bed half an hour ago, but he 
was held captive by a singular and astonishing book on Mex- 
ico, written by a Frenchman. The adventure in which he was 
absorbed carried over into several chapters, and Kneebone felt 
that he must go through with it at once, if he hoped to have a 
good night’s rest. Suddenly there was a step on the little 
gravelled terrace outside, and a knock at the door. Kneebone, 
much wondering who his visitor could be at that unearthly 
hour, got up and went to the door. “ Who’s there?'” he in- 
quired, unfastening the door. 

“ Me,” answered a voice that startled him. He opened the 
door quickly, and there stood Abel Boden. 

“Good heavens, lad! are you ill?” cried Kneebone, closing 
the door as Abel passed in. 

“No, I am all right, thank you.” 

“ Then what the deuce brings you here this time of the night ? 
ts there anything the matter with Nathan?” 

“No, he is all right. I’m sorry to disturb you so late, but 
the truth is — I felt I couldn’t rest till morning without seeing 
you.” 

“ Oh, it’s all right. The wonder is I wasn’t in bed, though,” 
said Kneebone. He poked up the fire and put the little brass 
kettle on, and fetching another tumbler, brewed his visitor a 
glass of grog. “ Now be good enough to amuse yourself with 
that, while I finish this chapter. I’ve only two or three pages 
to read, but you came in at a very critical point. There’s 


282 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


a fellow pommelling a villain of a priest, and — the thing’s 
too rich not to finish. I wish I had been there at the time! ” 
So saying, Kneebone plunged with glorious appetite into his 
romantic narrative. 

Abel sipped his grog and stared at the fire, and began won- 
dering why romance, like miracle, was a thing that always 
happened at a distance, and never came home to roost; then 
his thoughts got into a certain well-worn groove that ran round 
and round the central image of his love — and time for him was 
no more. He was recalled to his actual situation by Kneebone 
closing his book and saying: 

“ The writer says it is true, which is a good lie, but not so 
good as the tale itself. Now, my lad, what’s up?” 

Said Abel: “Violet Chalk came to see me at Nathan’s to- 
night, and I have just seen her back home. She is sorely 
troubled; and so, for the matter of that, am I. There’s a 
nasty piece of business afloat, it seems.” 

“Then in that case, hold on a bit while I fill my pipe. Pity 
you don’t smoke oftener, lad. Beastly habit, I know, but good 
for the intellects; clears away the fog that naturally encumber- 
eth the brain, imparteth serenity to the mind and courage to 
the heart. In all great undertakings men ought to pray before- 
hand, but some can’t. These ought always to smoke, and the 
others also,” observed Kneebone, filling his pipe as he spoke. 

Abel waited until the smoke began to curl and Kneebone lay 
back in his chair. Then he said abruptly: 

“ I have got to leave Voe within a week.” 

“What’s that?” exclaimed Kneebone, quickly. 

“ I always felt it would come sooner or later. He has been 
driving at it for a long time now, and at last he has got a pur- 
chase,” said Abel, in a dejected tone. 

“You are a fatalist, I hear, by your tone. I have not the 
smallest idea what you are talking about. But I hate talking 
with a fatalist, lad. When bad luck has overtaken me — and a 
devilish hard rider is bad luck — instead of holding out my 
wrists for him to quietly handcuff me, I’ve met him, so to 
speak, with one straight from the shoulder. If that wasn’t 
enough, I never was above using my boot on him. I’m a fa- 
talist to this degree: if you fight the devil of ill luck tooth and 
nail he is dead sure to turn tail. Now put on a little more 
cheerful tone, and go ahead. Only don’t forget to begin at the 
beginning.” 

Profiting by these admirable suggestions, Abel dropped his 
fatalistic sentiments, adopted a more cheerful tone, and began 
at the beginning. Kneebone made no remark, except now and 


IN A TRAP 


283 


then to put a question, but lay back, puffing slowly, while Abel 
opened up to him the situation in all its bearings. When he 
had finished, Kneebone remarked: 

“ I was afraid some mischief would be the result of these 
stolen interviews. I think I warned you to keep your eyes 
open ? ” Abel made a gesture of impatience. “ I know what 
you mean, lad. It is easy to be foreseeing after the event. 
Well, let it pass. What do you think now of a trip to South 
America ? ” 

“ I should be very glad to go — if I could take Ruth along.” 

“Then take her. I don’t object. We could leave her in one 
of the Indian settlements, while we went into the interior,” 
said Kneebone, laughing. 

“ If we were only married,” sighed Abel. 

“ Then marry, lad. There are plenty of parsons about ; and 
if you will make a runaway match of it, I’ll stand all expenses, 
and give the bride a pretty wedding present for her good sense.” 

There was a pause, broken by Abel saying: 

“I don’t know if she would consent. But if she did, it 
wouldn’t get us out of the difficulty. It would not help Violet 
Chalk. And she seems to be the one most likely to suffer in 
this affair. No; she has got into the mess for our sakes, and 
it is only right I should do anything I can to get her out. But 
I don't like leaving Voe. And Ruth — it will go hard with her, 
I’m thinking. I see now why the miller left her so much to 
herself.” 

“Ha! if it wasn’t for that handsome baggage, that piece of 
colored Chalk, we’d snap our fingers at the miller as far as you 
are concerned, lad. But unless you are willing to do a mean 
thing and throw her overboard, you are both in a ]trap. The 
gentleman Am Ende, too — I’m afraid he is not to be am-ended. 
I should like to pension that scamp; kick him and pension him, 
the subtile rogue! Don’t you think the truth could be drilled 
into Silas Chalk’s head? If we could only get him to see 
things in the right light, we could still circumvent the miller.” 

This last point was a critical one, and was discussed at 
length; the final conclusion being that it was of no use trying 
to win over to reason such a stupidly jealous churl. The pros- 
pect seemed hopeless, and Abel was very dejected. Kneebone 
put down his pipe, drew a toothpick from his pocket, and fell 
a-thinking. This for a full half-hour. At length he looked 
up and said: 

“You had better sleep here to-night. To-morrow, I guess I 
will trot up to the mill and have a talk with the miller. Most 
animals can be either led or driven.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


FATHER AND SON 

The next morning Christopher Kneebone was a long time 
dressing; indeed, he might have been going to Carbel Chase, so 
careful was he in his toilet. He was a long time over his 
breakfast, too; not that he ate much, but he dawdled over the 
meal, and seemed to find more interest in his thoughts than in 
his smoked bacon and mumbled eggs. Over his pipe he made 
a pretence of reading his morning paper ; but the leaders seemed 
pretentiously dull and stale, and the news — foreign and home — 
was strangely wanting in salt. It had turned eleven of the 
clock when he laid down his pipe, and prepared for his trot to 
the mill. Passing the forge, he looked in and found Abel 
alone. 

“I am going to beard the lion in his den, you see, as I 
promised you. How do I look?" he said, drawing himself up 
for inspection. 

“You look all right, sir,” answered Abel, smiling. 

“ Don’t you see anything strange in my appearance ? Any- 
thing that stamps me as a man of mark ? ” 

“No, I don’t. Why?” 

Kneebone stretched forth his hand, and declaimed with no 
little spirit: 

“ On the other side, Satan, alarmed, 

Collecting all his might, dilated stood, 

Like Teneriff or Atlas, unremoved: 

His stature reached the sky, and on his crest 
Sat Horror plumed; nor wanted in his grasp 
What seemed both spear and shield." 

Here he raised aloft his walking-stick, as a Zulu his assegai 
when about to hurl it. 

“I don’t often feel called upon to compare myself with his 
Serene Darkness, but just now I feel very much like he did, 
and I did not know but what I looked it. I feel in no small 
funk. And that, I suppose, is what the poet meant by ‘on his 
crest sat Horror plumed.’ If you don’t see me again, lad, you 
may conclude the lion has gobbled me up.” Then he turned 
and left the smithy, and five minutes later was at the mill. 


FATHER AND SON 


285 

The miller was out, but was expected back every minute; 
and would Mr. Kneebone come in and wait for him ? Knee- 
bone went in, and presently Ruth put in an appearance, tall 
and graceful, and full of all maidenly sweetness and light. She 
knew nothing of what had occurred, and little guessed the ob- 
ject of his visit. When she shook hands with him he bent for- 
ward and kissed her on the cheek. A most unwarrantable pro- 
ceeding, but he did it with perfect naturalness, and the girl 
took it with exquisite frankness. A faint blush just tinged her 
face, but she looked him in the eyes and smiled sweetly. 
They talked about people and things, especially the Phythians. 

Ruth, not all-unconscious of what she was doing, but still 
with beautiful sincerity, sang the praise of Janoca — sang it as 
only a girl can sing the song of admiration, devotion, and love. 
And Christopher Kneebone listened attentively, and found the 
song exceedingly sweet and musical. 

“And then she is rich, you know.” 

“ I didn’t know. But she is none the worse for that, I hope ? ” 

“Oh, dear me, no. I only wish I were rich,” cried Ruth, 
blending laugh and sigh together. 

“Well, and if you were, what? What would you do first of 
all ? ” Kneebone asked in a sympathetic and interested tone, 
the strange value of which in dealing with men and women he 
had long since learned, and held it as a sort of shy, pathetic 
secret of humanity, to be treated with quite peculiar delicacy 
and respect. 

An odd man was Kneebone, full of quaint, tender, and 
chivalrous notions: his name smacks of the valley of dry bones 
rather than of the battle of Hastings; but unearth his pedigree, 
and, sure as fate, somewhere in the remote past we should 
come across his true progenitor — a quaint old gentleman of 
courtly manners, sweet temper, knightly ideals, and saintly 
thoughts. 

“Oh, I would buy a yacht, a beautiful steam yacht,” re- 
plied Ruth, her bonnie brown eyes dancing with delight at the 
very thought. 

“ Why not buy a white elephant at once ? ” 

“ Indeed it would be no white elephant, I assure you, Mr. 
Kneebone. I should cruise in the Mediterranean for months.” 

“ After you had cruised in the Mediterranean for months, 
what next? Sell your boat for a song, and come home in dis- 
gust, eh?” 

“ Nothing of the kind. I should just start off for — for South 
America.” 

“ South America, eh ? What would your ladyship do there ? ” 


286 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


Ruth laughed as she answered: “lam sure I don’t know. I 
suppose I should have company on board. I would invite you, 
for instance, and Mr. and Miss Phythian, and — yes, I should 
have to take him, because I know he would like very much to 
go. I mean Abel. I would land you gentlemen to seek for 
wourali poison, and serpents, and strange insects, and birds — 
oh, such wonderful birds! The snow-white egret, the scarlet 
curlew, the rosy flamingo, the yellow and purple Callo del Rio 
Negro, and that green and blue solitary, the houtou, and the 
bird that yelps like a puppy and says, ‘Pia-po-o-co, ’ and the 
bird that barks like a dog, ‘Wow, wow, wow, wow,’ and above 
all, the pretty snow-white campanero, with its note loud and 
dear like the sound of a distant convent bell, which can be 
heard at a distance of three miles. These and other curiosities 
you should seek out. But Miss Phythian should remain on 
board, where are no cannibals, and I would stay with her. 
And together we would pray for the safe return of the mad 
Englishmen.” 

Kneebone stared at her in astonishment. 

“ Not a bad programme either. But — excuse me — you seem 
awfully well posted in the ornithology of South America,” he re- 
marked. 

“ Do I? I am afraid I have said all I know about it. It is 
what Abel has told me. He has told me such a lot about 
South America lately. I believe he would like to go and spend 
a year or two in the dreadful forests there,” exclaimed Ruth, 
gayly. 

“ Has he said anything to you about a plan I proposed to 
him a little while back?” inquired Kneebone. 

A look of surprise crossed the girl’s face as she answered: 
“ No, not a word.” 

“ Come to think of it, it is hardly likely he would. I wanted 
him to pull up his pegs and go with me to South America. 
And there find fame and forget — love! ” 

Ruth looked at him with unutterable reproach; then the tears 
came into her eyes. 

“ Oh, that was cruel ! I see it all now. And he gave it all 
up for me! ” she murmured in a low voice. 

“Yes, my dear, he gave it all up for you. But then, he 
loves you. And if a fellow doesn’t act finely when he is in 
love, God bless me, he is a wastrel, and nothing will help him 
but a taste of cowhide! I think it only fair to myself to say 
that I have made him another offer since,” said Kneebone, with 
a smile. 

“ A? cruel the other one ] ” 


FATHER AND SON 


287 


“ You shall judge for yourself. I offered to pay all expenses, 
start off for South America at once, and give the lady in ques- 
tion a pretty wedding present for her good sense, on condition 
that he would make a runaway match with you right away.” 

“O Mr. Kneebone, that was very, very wrong of you! It 
was almost wicked, in fact,” cried Ruth, her face aflame. 

“ I don’t know about that. I am going to have a plain talk 
about certain matters with your father to-day. If he is unrea- 
sonable, I should advise you to be a sensible girl, and ” 

Just then a step was heard outside, and Ruth said quickly 
as she rose: 

“That is father. I will go and tell him you are here.” 
Then she left the room. Presently the miller came in, looking 
surly and aggressive. Kneebone said: 

“Good-day, miller. I should like to have a few minutes’ 
private talk with you.” 

“Then you had better come this way,” answered the miller, 
gruffly. He led the way into the formal parlor, closed the 
door, and remarked: “You can find a chair, I suppose. I’m 
ready to hear what you have to say, blacksmith.” 

There was something distinctly contemptuous in histone and 
manner. But it seemed to have no effect upon Kneebone, who 
smiled and slowly stroked his chestnut beard; he looked round 
the room as if in search of the most comfortable chair, before 
he made up his mind to try the end of the sofa. Here he set- 
tled himself with great deliberation and purpose of comfort, 
while the miller sat awkwardly in his arm-chair, with a heavy 
frown on his face. 

“I hear you are disappointed in not getting a lease of the 
Plateau mine, miller?” said Kneebone, in an interrogative 
tone, by way of an opening. 

“Happen I am — happen I’m not,” replied the miller, with 
blunt curtness. 

“ I have been so busy lately with one thing and another that 
I’ve had no time to do anything at it There’s no reason 
now, though, why I shouldn’t go ahead and open it up. I 
wonder what I shall find in it.” 

“What do you mean by that?” inquired the miller, with 
startling energy. 

“ God bless my soul ! what have I said to vex you ? Do you 
think I should work the thing if I didn’t hope to make a find? 
And a mighty strange one, too. One that will make the old 
dunces round here open their eyes, or my name isn’t what 
it is.” 

For some moments the miller glared at him in silence, with 


2 88 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


wild and fierce terror unmistakably in his eyes and face. But 
if Kneebone’s tone was ambiguous, his manner was simplicity 
itself. The miller was reassured, though the shock to his 
nerves left him almost unstrung. He laughed gruffly as he 
asked: 

“ And what may you hope to find ? ” 

“ Well, perhaps it will be time enough to talk when I’ve 
struck it,” answered Kneebone, in the same dreadfully ambig- 
uous tone that sent a cold thrill through the miller. His tone 
changed pleasantly, as he added: “ I don’t know but what I’d 
be willing to transfer my lease — I’ve got power to do it, you 
know — for a proper consideration.” 

“Ha! indeed!” exclaimed the miller, and his face lit up in 
a trice. What a flood of joy rushed through his frame! But 
after it ran quick jets of cold caution and calculating prudence. 
The light died out of his face; he even tried to frown and look 
surly and indifferent; but somehow his muscles failed him, 
while every beat of his heart seemed to pump gladness into his 
remorseful face. The result, as concerned his countenance, 
was a pitifully odd and tragical play and working of feature and 
expression. Kneebone beheld in it something abysmally sad 
and pathetic. 

“Yes, I am afraid of having too many irons, for one thing, 
in the fire. Then, again, if I am to receive a valuable consid- 
eration, I must expect to offer something valuable. I think it 
is a valuable mine either to you or me, and so I offer it you on 
conditions,” he said, slowly, as he watched the strife of emo- 
tions distorting his brother’s face. 

“I’m not so sweet on it, happen, as you think. But that’s 
no reason why I shouldn’t hear your conditions,” said the 
miller, cautiously. 

“ Well, there’s that nephew of yours. I have a strong fancy 
for him, and I hear that you want him to leave the place. May 
I ask what you have against him?” 

“ That’s none of your business. What’s atwixt him and me 
is atwixt him and me. You served me a scurvy trick enough 
in not sacking him when first you came. I like a man who’ll 
stick to his word.” 

“ If you mean I have broken mine, I’d be much obliged if 
you would let me know when, where, and how?” 

“ Six months ago, on the night of the sale, you gave me to 
understand you’d sack him.” 

“ Indeed! I didn’t know it.” 

“You said you would think about it.” 

“ I know that. And I kept my word. I thought about it, 


FATHER AND SON 289 

and decided I’d keep him. And jolly glad I am that I did. 
He is a very useful fellow.” 

“Look here, you blacksmith! I tell you it was a scurvy 
trick. But I’ve got him on the hip at last.” 

“ Yes, it does look like it, doesn’t it ? Poor devil ! he seems in 
a trap, unless somebody can get him out.” 

“Let them try! that’s all I have to say. Ha! ha! let them 
try! Damn it all, let us drop the subject! What’s your price 
for the mine ? ” 

“I’m thinking if we drop the lad we must drop the mine, 
too. My notion was, if I let you have the mine, you would 
agree to drop this affair of Abel and Violet Chalk, and let him 
and your daughter come together, seeing that they care for one 
another so much.” 

The miller made no reply; he seemed powerfully agitated, 
and found it difficult to control himself. At length he shook 
his head, and with a short, fierce laugh, he said : 

“A nice plan — a very simple, pretty, taking plan! But it 
won’t work, not quite. I’m used to money bargains, not to 
barter. I’ll give you a thousand pounds for the mine. That’s 
a straight offer, and happen I’m a fool for making it; but I’ll 
make it, for all that.” 

“ I won’t take it. I put a bigger value on it than that.” 

“What will you take, then?” 

“Nothing in money,” answered Kneebone, in a very decided 
tone. Just then he pulled out a toothpick and put it between 
his teeth; it was just so that he had done at the sale. The 
miller noticed the action, and his face clouded. The mine 
seemed to be slipping from him after all, and the old terror 
crept over him. 

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I will drop this Chalk affair, 
though it is a beastly scandal, and ■” 

“Miller,” interrupted Kneebone, “just one word — that’s all 
bunkum, and you know it. It serves your purpose; all right, 
only don’t try to fool an old hand like me. I beg pardon, what 
were you going to say?” 

The miller actually flushed at this, and moved uneasily in 
his chair, as he said: “ If it’s a false charge, let them prove it. 
Though I’m thinking your presence here shows that they are in 
a corner, and they know it; but let that pass. I was saying 
I’ll drop this Chalk affair, and let the young smith alone, if that 
will satisfy you.” 

“That is one point settled. Now, what about the young 
folk coming together?/” 

“ Never! It’s out of the question.” 

19 


290 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


“ Don’t be hasty over it. Listen to reason. He saved her 
life, and ” 

“ I tell you I won’t hear of it,” broke in the miller, angrily. 

“Then I will keep the mine, and ” 

“Keep it, then, and be d d to you! No girl of mine shall 

wed that miserable dog. And the sooner you clear out of here 
and let him know it the better,” cried the miller, rising to his 
feet. His face was purple, and his whole frame trembled with 
passion. 

And what was the cause of this furious outburst? This: 
deep down in his heart he was afraid lest his terror at the mine 
being opened should yet drive him to accept the hated condi- 
tion of Abel and Ruth coming together! Kneebone was on 
his feet, but he made no movement to leave. He kept his eyes 
on the miller, who seemed on the point of making a physical 
attack upon him. 

“There’s reason in all things, except in an angry man. 
What is the use of ” 

“ Happen I’m master in my own house, and I told you to go. 
Are you going?” roared the miller. 

Kneebone coolly jerked his half-chewed toothpick into the 
fireplace, and sticking a fresh one between his teeth, replied: 

“Well, I am hardly used to this kind of thing. When a 
blackguard bullies me, indoors or out, I generally like to know 
the reason why.” 

With an oath the miller advanced toward Kneebone, his 
right fist doubled and his left hand outstretched, as if to seize 
his visitor by the collar or throat, whichever came handiest. 
Kneebone instantly set himself in scientific attitude for a spar. 
The miller halted, whereupon Kneebone said: 

“How should we look in a photograph? I’m thinking I 
could knock all the breath out of you in half a minute. And 
I’m sorely tempted to do it, too, if it’s only for the sake of 
your liver. This is a lively attitude in which to carry on a 
conversation with a man, and no mistake. But you will re- 
member what I am about to say, to your dying day. Maybe 
you remember one pretty warm day in May, years agone, car- 
rying a tidy weight up the hillside to the Plateau mine, and 
pitching it in like a dead dog? Good memory, I see.” 

There was something fearfully grim and cynical in his last 
words, for as he spoke the name of the mine the miller gasped: 
“ O my God! ” and throwing up his hands, staggered back, and 
would have fallen but for his high-backed chair, which he sud- 
denly grasped. There he stood, his eyes, wide open with hor- 
ror, fixed on Kneebone, and his great red face blanched. 


FATHER AND SON 


291 


“Murder will out, you see,” said Kneebone, putting his 
hands in his trousers-pockets, while he looked the miller stead- 
ily in the eye. 

“ Who are you ? A devil from hell, come to torment me afore 
my time ? ” asked the miller, in a tone that sent a shiver through 
Kneebone, for he thought the miller had gone mad. 

“No, Luke, maybe I’m sent to save you from going there. 
Don’t you know me?” 

“Speak, for God’s sake! What do you know? Who are 
you?” cried the miller, in quick, breathless gasps. 

Kneebone crossed the room and came quite close to him; 
the light was on his face. 

“Nay, man, look at me. Take away this nasty scar under 
the eye, and put this poor crooked, broken nose straight — it was 
once, you know, Luke, till — never mind when. Look at my 
eyes. They surely aren’t ” 

“ Thou art Abel, as I live! my brother Abel risen from the 
dead! And I’m Cain, Cain the cursed. What hast come back 
for, lad? To hang me?” 

“ No, lad; that’s not in my line. I’ve come back because I 
am tired of being away.” 

“Thou’st been dead o’er twenty years, lad. And I’ve kept 
the secret close. But it has burnt me. O God! it has burnt 
away my soul. I have nothing now worth damning!” The 
terror had gone from his face now, and he sat down in his chair. 
An uncanny feeling crept over Kneebone; he did not know 
whether his brother was mad or not. 

“ Dead or not, Luke, I’m alive now, and well. You are glad 
to see me, aren’t you?” 

“I don’t know, lad — I don’t know.” 

“ Luke, I forgive you everything. Will you forgive me any- 
thing I said or did that maddened you?” 

“Oh, yes,” answered the miller, with an odd laugh. 

“ And you will let my lad Abel marry your girl Ruth?” 

Something like an electric shock went through the miller; 
he raised his bent head as if to speak, but no words came. 
“ Speak, Luke. I must have your promise before I go.” 

“ You are going then, eh ? How long, this time, afore I may 
look for you again? Twenty years?” 

“No; twenty hours, more like. I am waiting, Luke.” 

“ What for ? ” 

“Your consent for the young ones to wed.” 

“Well, happen I’d better give in, since you’ve come back 
from the dead to make me. I’d like to be left alone a bit, I’m 
thinking. ” 


292 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


On his way back, Kneebone stopped a moment at the smith- 
ery, and said, with a grave face: “After tea, lad, come up and 
see me. I want to have a talk with you.” Then he went on 
to the house. What with his words, and his grave manner and 
countenance, Kneebone must have failed with the miller, 
thought Abel. This conclusion preyed upon his mind, and 
filled him with gloomy thoughts. He began to realize what it 
would cost him to leave Voe and Ruth. Altogether, it was 
about the most wretched day of his life, and he looked upon it 
as but the first of a long, long series of similar days. He ar- 
rived at Rook’s Nest about sundown ; he found Kneebone lying 
in a hammock-chair in the heptagon. 

“ It is a beautiful evening, and it seems almost a shame to 
go in. But I think we had better,” said Kneebone, getting up 
and leading the way into the pretty nutshell of a library. 
“ We are all alone in the house; Deborah won’t be back for 
some time, so we can talk freely. I dare say you are anxious 
to know the upshot of my visit to the mill, eh?” said Knee- 
bone, extracting from a case a superb puro carefully sheathed 
in a manilla wrapper, which he proceeded to uncover with great 
care; having lighted it, he seemed more at ease. 

“Yes, I think I am; though I think I can pretty well guess 
it,” answered Abel, a little gloomily. 

“ Do you know, lad, that is a bad habit you’ve got of meet- 
ing misery half-way. What’s the cause of it, think you?” 

“ That is more than I can tell. Unless it is that I fancy it’s 
just as well to give yourself up to the inevitable right away, 
without waiting for it to arrest you.” 

“ And you make up your mind that the inevitable must be 
painful. Why shouldn’t it just as well be pleasurable?” 

“I have often asked that question myself, sir.” 

“And what answer did you get?” 

“ Simply that it is not pleasurable. This kind of question, 
sir, gets a very curt answer from life,” said Abel, with a laugh 
that meant a great deal. 

“You are not happy, lad. You are a philosopher. Happen 
it is cause and effect. If I were you, I would take my philoso- 
phy and my misery, and throw them, like physic, to the dogs. 
Not that the dogs will take them; they have too much sense. 
A hard job to do it, you think. Well, I think I can give you 
a good heft. The miller, to begin with, is going to drop this 
Chalk affair.” 

“ No!” 

“Yes.” 

“And there’s no talk of me leaving here?” 


FATHER AND SON 


*93 


“No; that ghost is quite laid.” 

“ Thank goodness for that! ” exclaimed Abel, as aweary load 
seemed to fall from him. 

“So much for the inevitable, you see. Now I have got a 
fine piece of news for you. Ha, me! if I were only young like 
you, and somebody would come round and whisper in my ear 
— ‘Her papa withdraws all opposition, and you are free to 
marry the lady you love!’ Wouldn’t I send a ringing three 
times three and a tiger to the stars! You bet.” 

“You don’t mean it? You are mocking me,” cried Abel, in 
hochster Spannung , as a German would say. 

“Nay, nay; it is fickle Dame Fortune who is mocking thee 
and thy gloom-shot philosophy. I tell thee, boy, the girl is 
thine, and with her father’s consent, too.” 

Up from his seat sprang Abel, and seizing his cap, waved it 
above his head, and shouting: “Hip, hip, hip, hurrah!” sent 
it flying three times up to the ceiling. “Rah! Rah! Rah!” 
yelled Kneebone in response. It was an odd scene. A looker- 
on would not have been surprised to learn that it was an act 
of exorcism — and it was: from that hour, the spirit of melan- 
choly forsook Abel. 

Said Abel, after they had looked at each other in silence and 
laughed together in sympathy : 

“And it is all your doing. My friend, words fail me now! ” 

Kneebone was on his feet in a moment; as their hands met 
he said: 

“ Lad, I’ve something else to tell you now. Look at me — 
Abel — I am your father ! ” 

“ What ? What ? My father ? ” 

“Yes, lad, yes. And the miller knows it. O lad, shan’t we 
both be able to bite our thumbs at unhappiness now! ” 

“ O father, father, I have been waiting so long for you! Let 
me cry it out, or it will kill me,” cried Abel, and he bent his 
head upon his father’s shoulder, and sobbed for joy. 


EPILOGUE. 


The winter was over and gone, and the time of the singing 
of birds, and the building of nests, and the opening of buds 
had come. The Memorial Hall was nearly finished, and the 
Voese were proud of it, for more reasons than one. It had 
come to represent in their eyes not only the great spate and the 
great rescue, but also the strange return of the wanderer, “ owd 
Abel Boden.” The romance of the thing was still sweet in 
their mouths. And to think that he had been in their midst 
seven whole months, and not one of them, the oldest and the 
wisest, had guessed who he was; though, to be sure, twenty 
years is a long time, long enough to draw a veil over the eyes 
even of love itself. 

Would it ever be forgotten in Voe, what a day it was when 
the rumor first went round that old Abel Boden was somewhere 
in the neighborhood? It was in the fall of the year, and they 
met together, some on the Scarthin bridge, and the rest in the 
Nag’s Head, and they talked the matter over till the stars came 
out. Next day it was given out there was to be a meeting held 
under the forge elm ; and after tea everybody that could walk or 
hobble was there. Presently down the hill came old Nathan 
Wass and Christopher Kneebone; and everybody seemed a bit 
disappointed, for they had got the notion into their heads that 
old Abel himself would turn up that night. Nathan Wass stood 
on a stone bench, with Kneebone beside him; and saying he 
wanted to say something, the crowd ceased its chatter and gave 
heed. 

“ Friends,” said Nathan, and his voice shook, though not 
with age — “ friends, I hanna got the gift o’ th’ gab, and it isna 
in me to entertain you wi’ a fine speech. I’m on’y come here to 
introduce to you a dear, dear owd friend o’ mine, and o’ thine, 
too; for Voe ne'er puts out o’ mind the memory o’ her childer, 
though they be afar off in foreign lands where she canna see 
’em. Friends, here he is — this is owd Abel Boden ! ” So saying, 
he put his hand on Kneebone’s shoulder. 

The crowd did nothing but open mouth and eyes in stupid 
amazement; it was dead silent. And it kept silence fora long 
time, while Kneebone was speaking — in fact, until he referred 


EPILOGUE 


295 


to his going away, when he said that, although he could not 
prove he was innocent of the charge brought against him with- 
out showing that somebody else was in the wrong — and that he 
did not mean to do under any circumstances — yet he was sure 
they would all believe him when he said that he was innocent 
of ever attempting the life of any one, though happen he had 
had to fight for his own life. Then the crowd found its tongue 
in honest fashion, and Kneebone knew that, as of yore, the 
heart of Voe was with him. After that, what a talk he made 
them! What strange tales he told them! How he made them 
faugh, and cry, and cheer in turns! And when a rheumatic old 
native cried out: “Hast made much siller, shepherd ?” and 
Kneebone, with a laugh, said: “Ay, old friend, and I have 
that. I guess I am richer than my old master, the squire him- 
self," the long, loud shout that rent the air was one of honest 
joy; not a streak of envy was in the whole crowd. 

Miller Boden was not at the meeting, for the sufficient reason 
that he was lying at death’s door. Voe might have spared 
itself much speculation as to how the miller would bear him- 
self toward his brother and his brother’s lad; for nobody 
counted on him dying. But die he did. The strain had been 
too much for him; he took to his bed the very night that his 
brother discovered himself to him, and when he left it, five 
weeks later, he was carried out feet foremost to the grave. 
During this sad time, Janoca Phythian bound herself to Ruth 
with cords of loving sympathy, that were never to be broken 
while life lasted. So that when Janoca and Balthasar insisted 
upon her making Carbel Chase her home, at least for the pres- 
ent, Ruth consented, and there she was now domiciled. Abel, 
also, had changed his residence, and was now living with his 
father; and this, too, represented the work of the Reaper on 
whose not unkind face we shall each one look in his turn. 
The weird little tufa cottage on the edge of the wood was now 
vacant — had been vacant since the last day of the old year, 
when they gave into the keeping of Mother Earth the mortal 
remains of Nathan Wass, the venerable old broom-maker. 

And now the winter was over and gone, and the time of the 
singing of birds, and the building of nests, and the opening of 
buds had come. The Scarthin with its mellow music still 
went on, “Flow, flow, flow, always the same,”^s “Old Q.” re- 
marked of the Thames; it looked so picturesque, and bright, 
and full of sparkling good-humor, that it seemed well-nigh in- 
credible that it could ever get its back up in the way it did. 
Yet a year ago to the very day, thought Abel, as he stood on 


2g6 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


the bridge and looked at the shining waters below, what a rag- 
ing demon it was, and how it struggled to devour him and his 
darling! Presently he passed on and made his way toward 
Carbel Chase. They were going to celebrate the day at the 
Chase with a dinner, to which he and his father were invited. 
Abel chose the way over the fields, which led him among the 
rocks, and streams, and dells, and coppices, and meadows, and 
ploughed lands, ribbed with green furrows of springing corn. 
The sweet tenderness, the piping gladness of nature, seemed 
the outcome of the deep, unruffled peace that dwelt in its heart. 

And he was a child of nature, and at last, at last! — ah me! 
it was like a magician’s tale — he was going to travel, and see 
strange lands, and tread mighty primeval forests, and see un- 
heard-of forms of animal and insect life; explore, discover, 
collect, read, study, and — and — well, why not? — some day, when 
he had something to tell, write a book that would make the 
wisest rub his eyes! These were his thoughts, and they held 
him, so that he passed within a dozen feet of Ruth, who was 
seated on a rock in a little dell, without seeing her. She al- 
lowed him to go on some little distance, and then she sent out 
a bird-note that brought him to a stand in a moment. He 
looked round in surprise, and catching sight of her, came back 
with a bound. 

“ You looked very happy as you went by,” said Ruth, as soon 
as her lover gave her a chance of speaking. 

“ I felt as I looked.” 

“ Indeed! Yet you were not thinking of me, sir.” 

“ I am afraid, to be truthful, I was not, just then.” 

“ I admire your candor, sir, but your sentiments are not com- 
plimentary. It seems that I am not necessary to your happi- 
ness.” This with great dignity, and an air of wounded pride. 

“ Nay, sweetheart, that isn’t true. Isn’t it good health that 
enables a man to enjoy the prospect of a capital dinner ? Yet, 
thinking of the dinner, he need give no one thought at the time 
to his health. Without you I should not be capable of happi- 
ness. But since I know I have you, most things make me 
happy.” 

“ But you haven’t got me yet.” 

“No; but, darling, won’t you tell me when I shall have you, 
in your sense ? ” 

“ In my sens® ? I have no sense, sir .! ” She blushed divinely, 
and broke out laughing. Then, with sudden gravity: “You 
must know, Mr. Boden, that it is not every one who could afford 
to say they were without sense. People might be only too 
ready to believe them.” But Abel was not to be diverted. 


EPILOGUE 


297 


“Come, my love, tell me,” he murmured, drawing her close 
to him, when shall it be? Why should we wait any longer? 
Shall it be in a month?” Ruth shook her head. “In two 
months, then? I can’t wait a day longer. Shall it be two 
months from to-day, love?” He felt a little tremor pass over 
her. She raised her head, looked in his eyes for one moment, 
and then threw her arms round his neck and whispered: 

“ Yes, dearest, two months from to-day I will be yours for- 
ever and ever and ever.” 


When they reached the Chase they found Kneebone — who 
had started from home early in the morning, saying that he 
was going to Yewdle Brig — had already arrived, and, as it was 
still early in the afternoon, had proposed a stroll. Janocawas 
for staying at home, pleading household duties; but this idea 
met with general disapprobation, and she gave way. It was 
Ruth’s suggestion that they should go as far as Carkloe Manor 
and back; and as neither she nor Abel had been over the place, 
and a prettier walk could not be found, this was agreed to. 
When they got there, they found no signs of workmen about, 
and smoke was issuing from a score of chimneys. 

“ It looks as if somebody was living here. I fear we shall 
not be able to get in,” observed Janoca. 

“I am so sorry! It looks such a dear old place,” remarked 
Ruth. 

“Anyway, we can inquire,” said Kneebone, marching up to 
the great doors, and pulling a bell that rang in the court-yard. 
Part of the great door opened and revealed the face of the 
bailiff’s daughter. 

“ We want to have a look at the manor. I suppose there is 
no objection?” said Kneebone. 

The girl shook her head, saying: “We have orders not to 
admit the public, without written permission. You see, sir, 
the place is now finished and furnished, and we expect the 
owner will soon be here.” 

“ Dear me ! that is awkward. From whom can we get a writ- 
ten permit ? ” 

“ From the steward, Mr. Dimsdale, at Yewdle Brig.” 

“ Then, my dear Ruth, we must wait until it is occupied, and 
pay the owner a visit. There is sure to be a lady in the fam- 
ily,” said Janoca. She had stood aside, so that the girl within 
the court-yard had not caught sight of her. But now, hearing 
her voice, the girl looked out, and said: 

“Oh, I beg pardon; I didn’t know Miss Phythian was one 


298 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


of the party. We have orders to admit Miss Phythian and her 
friends at any time.” 

“ What a delightful man he must be! And I do not even 
know the gentleman by name,” laughed Janoca. They went 
in, and under the guidance of the bailiff’s daughter the whole 
party started to go over the place. But in accordance, doubt- 
less, with some peculiar law of nature, i*t soon came to pass 
that Balthasar and the guide were one room ahead of Abel and 
Ruth, who in turn were a room ahead of Kneeboneand Janoca; 
and nothing seemed able to disturb the relative position of 
these various interesting bodies of humanity. 

There had been wrought a magical change in the appearance 
of the interior since last we saw it; the place had been exquis- 
itely finished and upholstered, and looked enchanting. Janoca 
was in raptures. When they came to the long drawing-room, 
she exclaimed: 

“ Oh, isn’t this a perfect picture! I never saw a more lovely 
room in my life. And look, look there, Mr. Kneebone. ” She 
pointed to the end of the room, and there, overlooking the 
park, just where she had designated, was a noble window, the 
upper half being of rich stained glass of genuine antiquity and 
very costly. 

“Yes, I see. Singular you should both have hit upon the 
same idea,” said Kneebone, with a laugh. 

“But do you not think it is a great improvement?” 

“Oh, decidedly.” 

“You unappreciative individual!” 

In due time they came to the ball-room. The book-cases 
had vanished. The panels were enriched with exquisite Wat- 
teau designs. The room was finished in white and gold, but 
the ceiling was — bare. For some moments Janoca was lost in 
astonishment. What was the meaning of the thing? Every- 
thing had been done as she had suggested; even the ceiling 
had been left bare, as if to mark her words to Kneebone: “I 
will think about that, and let you know.” And oddly enough, 
the subject had never been mentioned since. One would al- 
most think— what a start she gave, as the idea flashed suddenly 
upon her! She turned and looked Kneebone keenly in the face 
for some seconds, without a word. Then she said slowly: “Is 
it possible?” Thereupon Kneebone pulled out a toothpick 
and — put it back again into his pocket. Which was a fine in- 
stance of presence of mind! 

It is written, All things are possible,” he answered. 

“And you have bought Carkloe Manor?” 

I have bought Carkloe Manor. And the few alterations 


EPILOGUE 


299 

you suggested, I have done my best to have carried out; even 
the ceiling awaits your pleasure.” 

“And I never once dreamed of such a thing! Oh, I am so 
glad! Glad for your own sake, and dear Ruth’s, and — and 
for my own too. It will be so nice to have you living here. 
Oh, it is all just like a romance, only that it is beautifully real. 
Do let me congratulate you, sincerely.” 

“Do you really like it so much, then?” 

“ I think it is just enchanting. I always thought the dear 
old place was a poem in stone, and now it seems as if it had 
been set to music.” 

/‘Ha! that is just what’s lacking. Miss Phythian — Janoca 
— will you come and set it to music?” Here he took her hand, 
and added: “ I bought the place for you, and you only. I dare 
not speak before — not since the day we were here last. But I 
must speak now. You have got into my life in a way I thought 
no one ever could again. If love and devotion can make you 
happy, your life shall be a happy one. Will you let me hope ? ” 

“O Mr. Kneebone, I didn’t expect this! What am I to say? 
I am ” 

“Say Abel, instead of Mr. Kneebone or Mr. Boden.” 

“Well — Abel — there now! ” 

“ Oh, God bless you for that! It won’t be long ere you say, 
Abel, dear, I love you! Will it?” He drew her to him ; and the 
stately Janoca yielded — oh, so sweetly! oh, so divinely! oh, 
so womanly! When their lips parted she whispered softly: 
“Abel, dearest, I love you! I love you! and I am so happy!” 


A little later the party met in the drawing-room, and at a 
word from Kneebone the guide left them alone. And then and 
there Kneebone told them of his ownership of the place. Bal- 
thasar sneezed, Abel laughed, Ruth sighed, all of them being 
wonder-struck. Said Kneebone, when the sensation had some- 
what evaporated: 

“ But the best news comes last. Abel, lad, this lady is go- 
ing to be my wife.” Then Ruth gave a little cry of delight, 
and a clap of her hands, and ran and threw her arms round 
Janoca, and actually began to weep. 

“Oh, I am so glad, so glad! I will try to be the sweetest 
daughter to you in the world.” 

“Thank' you, darling girl. Like you, I am so glad, so 
glad !” murmured Janoca, as she took her in her arms and 
kissed her. 

“And so that scamp Philip will be dished, after all, and I 


3 °° 


THE BLACKSMITH OF VOE 


shall not have to do the dishing. I am free from all danger of 
the fowler’s net evermore. Kneebone, I condole with you. 
Jano, O Jano, may you be as happy as you are good! ” quoth 
Balthasar, going up to his sister and kissing her. 

“ O uncle, I do love you for loving her, and making her love 
you! Isn’t she an angel ?” said Ruth, in his ear, as he em- 
braced her. 

“Yes, lassie, that and more too. And what about you and 
Abel ? Haven’t you kept him waiting long enough, think you ? ” 

“I have promised to marry him two months from to-day,” 
she answered low. 

“You have? Then for being a good girl, I tell you what I 
will give you as a wedding present. A steam yacht! Nay, 
nay, don’t smother me. You shall have one all your own, and 
sail away with your husband to South America.” 

Murmured Ruth: “Would it not be nice if you and Abel 
were married on the same day?” 

“Well, lassie, if you will help me, maybe we shall be able 
to work it.” 

And together they worked it. 


THE END. 


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